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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802813">Look Not Too Deep</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal'>mortifyingideal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Assassins &amp; Hitmen, BUT this is still a hitman AU so be aware there are characters doing a murder in this, Fake Marriage, Guns, M/M, MORT MIGHT WRITE A FUCK 2K21 (mum don't read this one please), SOMEONE WILL DIE (of fun), basically it's a Mr &amp; Mrs Smith AU, but it's gay so the heterosexual failings of the original film plot do not apply here, but you actually DO love them and you LOVE being married to them, in a roundabout sort of way, it's me though so it's like murder-ha-ha instead of murder-oh-no, like a lot of gun talk please be aware!, listen sometimes you get married to someone to provide you an alibi for your job as a hitman, oh yeah speaking of, poisons and sharp knives and guns oh my, rating may be upped in later chapters so keep an eye out for that too, so the conflict comes from elsewhere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:47:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After wrestling with a string of failed dates, a substandard algorithm and a stubborn refusal to accept his fate, Anthony J. Crowley thinks he may have finally found the perfect husband. </p>
<p>Yeah, alright, Aziraphale Fell—purveyor of rare and antiquated books—isn't exactly what he imagined when Crowley pictured himself getting married, but there's a connection there that can't be denied. Some unspoken <i>thing</i> that tells Crowley he's finally met his match. Now he just has to get married, live happily ever after, and not let his new husband find out that he's only so keen to get hitched because he's in the market for a new cover identity in order to get back to his career as a deadly hitman.</p>
<p>Aziraphale, naturally, felt the exact same way.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <i>A Mr &amp; Mr<s>s</s> Smith AU, updates weekly</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Courts GO Re-Reads</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Alibi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <span class="small">this is just a little something i'm having fun working on for the time being while LB is on hiatus due to Unavoidable Life Stuff. i said to myself i wasn't going to do another AU but who the fuck am i kidding. shoutout to sondheim for the title and for making me feel several emotions every time i listen to 'marry me a little'.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <span class="small">specific big thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley">rachel</a> &amp; <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin">nogz</a> for being absolute babes and enthusiastically yelling about this idea while it was still in its early stages. also to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyzym/pseuds/Gyzym">dylan</a>, who will read whatever i throw at him with requests for validation and always makes good on that request tenfold. and, of course, my eternal vibe checkers <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92">indie</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia_device/pseuds/marginalia_device">marginalia</a> who are very busy and important but still make time to listen to my ramblings of a half-formed plot and then tell me what a complete nightmare i am. that's friendship baybee.</span></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley approached dating the way one might approach a ticking bag left unattended at the airport; with caution, a readiness to bolt at the first sign of trouble, and the silent hope that the worst case scenario won’t come to pass. So far this month, he’d encountered several worst case scenarios, who all dressed like him, spoke like him, thought they all <em> got </em> him on some fundamental level and so it followed that—like them—a quick shag was all he was in the market for.</p>
<p>They couldn’t have been more wrong, both in their assumptions and for Crowley himself.</p>
<p>So it was with a heavy heart—and a slowly-dwindling list of prospects—that Crowley logged onto AdamandSteve.com on an unassuming Thursday morning in May while he waited for his coffee to boil. He wasn’t expecting to find someone— in fact, he’d logged on because he was finally going to contact their Customer Service department about the absolutely abysmal algorithm they employed, and how it was going to get them all in trouble one day, because men like him were sick to their back teeth of time-wasters and duds. Take this complete joke, for instance. Top of his list that morning: <em> Aziraphale Fell, purveyor of rare and antiquated books. What </em>about Crowley’s carefully-curated profile would suggest he was interested in being paired up with a fussy, old-fashioned looking, desperately bookish—</p>
<p>Crowley took a break from his internal tirade to scan the man’s listing again. <em> Huh</em>. </p>
<p>He’d sent Aziraphale a message before the moka pot had even started bubbling.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I have to say, you’re not <em> quite </em>what I expected,” Aziraphale said, swirling the wine in his glass with an amused smirk.</p>
<p>“Think that’s my line,” said Crowley. Yes, alright, his first assessment hadn’t been completely far from the mark. Fussy, old-fashioned looking, desperately bookish— all present and accounted for. He hadn’t been surprised when his first message testing the waters with the man had garnered a response within ten minutes of being sent—Aziraphale’s profile screamed <em> I’m fastidious and punctual to a fault!—</em>but the content of the response <em> had </em> been a surprise. Crowley had expected Aziraphale to agree to the date, of course, but he hadn’t been expecting the bookseller’s immediate put-down of Crowley’s high scale suggestion of venue, substituting his own instead. A spit-and-sawdust joint tucked away down a street in the Kentish Town area that Crowley had never heard of before, but Aziraphale said it was there or not at all and the ultimatum had worked for Crowley. </p>
<p>They’d met just outside the doors of the<em> Edward Chapman</em>. Crowley getting there a bit early to scope the place out and then waiting round a corner for Aziraphale to rock up before showing himself. Aziraphale had met his arrival with a trilled <em> “a pleasure to meet you, my dear” </em> and then had given Crowley a once-over that almost looked <em> bored</em>. Crowley hadn’t particularly dressed up for the date, beyond the usual <em> ‘I have just come here from my very important business job and you should be impressed by me’ </em> suit which, when paired with his cheekbones, had worked for him up until this point. He was now learning just how well the look of cool detachment it had inspired in his date worked for him, too. Loved learning things, did Crowley.</p>
<p>The pub itself was a surprise, too. It was exactly the sort of place Crowley had wished he’d discovered in his youth, and on the surface didn’t seem at all to be Aziraphale’s sort of vibe. It was dark, but not dingy, with a lack of the usual pub tat on the walls, instead just letting the rich carved oak of the interior speak for itself. The menu was simple, staple tasting dishes with locally sourced food rather than your bog standard pub burger or curry, and the drinks were expensive but not outrageously so considering the area. Aziraphale had led them to a table away from windows, prying eyes, and—most importantly—the potential waft of an errant loo breeze. He’d chatted happily with the bar staff, in the same confident manner he had approached Crowley’s messages, and had recommended several things from the menu for Crowley that were <em> almost exactly his tastes, </em> before ordering them a bottle of Crowley’s favourite wine to share without even consulting him<em>. </em>It was spooky, and more than just a little bit rude.</p>
<p>Crowley, of course, liked it.</p>
<p>“But,” he continued, “seeing as you brought it up first, why don’t you enlighten me. What did you expect?”</p>
<p>“Well, one tries not to judge, but people’s listings do give off certain <em> impressions, </em>don’t they.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah, completely ridiculous notion for a profile on a dating site.”</p>
<p>“Ha <em> ha. </em> I simply meant, if one knows how, it becomes frighteningly easy to read between the lines. Remarkable how much people give away without meaning to, thinking that they’re putting their best face forward when in actual fact—”</p>
<p>“They’re just letting you know how much of a twat they really are?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale pulled a face that Crowley didn’t know him well enough to read into yet, but he was pretty sure meant <em> I agree but don't want to give you the satisfaction. </em>It was a really great face; Crowley wanted to see it more.</p>
<p>“If you have to be <em> vulgar </em>about it. Take you, for instance. When I first saw your profile pop up a few days ago, I really wouldn’t have expected much from you at all.”</p>
<p>“There’s a compliment in there, somewhere,” said Crowley.</p>
<p>“Oh, you were <em> handsome </em> enough, of course, but that seemed to be the sum total of your <em> curriculum vitae </em>of attractive qualities. A complete lack of substance.”</p>
<p>“And what, pray tell, made me seem so unsubstantial in your esteemed gaze?” Crowley couldn’t help but feel, under all the rampant excitement, a <em> little </em> insulted. Unlike the folks behind the scenes at AdamandSteve.com, he liked to think he knew a little something about algorithms, and his profile had been carefully designed to attract a certain type of man. He’d actually worked sort of hard on it, though he’d never admit that if asked.</p>
<p>“Well,” Aziraphale paused, bit his lip, as though unsure he should go on, “you clearly have one of those jobs where all you do is shift a lot of numbers from column A to column B, making yourself and a series of besuited men elsewhere in the world very rich in the process— which does <em> not </em> an interesting date make, in my personal experience. <em> You </em> seem to want stability, a calming influence, an anchor, but everything about your <em> profile </em> seemed to telegraph <em> here for a good time, not a long time.</em>”</p>
<p>Crowley let out a bark of laughter at that and Aziraphale, comfortably on a roll now, smirked as he carried on.</p>
<p>“Your photographs haven’t much in the way of personality or content other than <em> ‘don’t I look very appetising perched against this very bland expanse of grey slate, or next to this very expensive vintage car, or in this very large marble kitchen’, </em> though we should both count ourselves lucky you didn’t feel the need to pose with any sort of recently deceased fish, otherwise neither of us would be sitting here right now. You didn’t list a <em> single </em> book that you enjoyed anywhere, but did find the space to spend an entire paragraph complaining about the ‘misrepresentation of the Bond mythos in modern cinema’. Oh, and you also misspelled ‘separate’. Twice.”</p>
<p>Crowley had started listening to this spiel with a somewhat controlled expression but, as Aziraphale had gone on, his grin had become uncontainably wild. “If I seemed so terrible, so beneath you<em>, </em> so <em> full of gratuitous spelling errors, </em>what made you reply when I sent that first message, then?”</p>
<p>“Did I forget to mention the part about you being very handsome, and looking very nice perched against a bland expanse of grey slate?”</p>
<p>“Oh, so you’re <em> shallow</em>,” Crowley said, “funny, would have never guessed that from your profile.” </p>
<p>“Is it a crime to want to have something good to look at while you eat?” Aziraphale asked, trying his best to affect an air of innocence. “I’m an <em> aesthete</em>, which you should know because I said so, quite clearly, on <em> my </em> profile. I even managed to spell it correctly.”</p>
<p>Crowley mouthed <em>‘shallow’ </em> at him as the server arrived with the first of their sharing platters, and the conversation moved on naturally to art, theatre, music, religion, philosophy, politics; every topic under the sun got an airing. Aziraphale was an <em> aesthete, </em>sure, whatever the hell that meant, but he was far from shallow. Or—more likely—they were both shallow in all the same ways, so it evened out in the end. As their personal tastes complimented, and clashed, and brawled over dish after dish of incredibly good food, Crowley found himself staring openly at the man across the table from him.</p>
<p>“You’re staring,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.</p>
<p>“How’ve I never seen you before?” said Crowley, unable to look away. “I mean, how have we never—I don’t know, bumped into each other? Seems like we’ve been narrowly avoiding a collision all these years. Same premieres, same fave holiday spots, same fun little places where they know you, same <em> barber </em>for Heaven’s sake. It just seems weird, us not meeting before now.”</p>
<p>Before this evening, Crowley had been almost ready to give up— it had been tricky, to consider getting back into the game at his big age, and he had been more than prepared to just settle. All he was really looking for was someone he wouldn’t mind coming home to at the end of the day. A body, a presence; someone to fill the empty rooms of his house. He hadn’t been expecting someone he might <em> look forward </em> to coming home to, and it was making him, for lack of a better word, a little giddy.</p>
<p>"How have I gone all this time and not seen you?”</p>
<p><em>I would have</em>, Crowley thought but didn’t say, <em>I would have </em><b><em>absolutely</em></b> <em>seen you.</em></p>
<p>“I think, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale, eyes locked on Crowley’s, “that that’s <em> my </em> line.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Jaime Hernez was a good bartender. </p>
<p>He remembered all the regulars’ orders. He could mix a truly staggering amount of cocktails by heart. He knew who would be trouble the second they walked in through the door.</p>
<p>The two gents who’d walked in several hours earlier, clearly on a first date, hadn’t looked like trouble at all. They’d just looked like, well, like two middle-aged blokes taking a chance on love. Jaime liked that, he liked that for them. One of them was a regular, though not one Jaime had had much personal dealing with, and he liked to imagine good things for their regulars. He’d just been thinking, as he headed for the loos on his break, how nice it would be if it worked out for the two of them. </p>
<p>He hadn’t been expecting to be confronted with just how <em> well </em> it was working out when he pushed the bathroom door open.</p>
<p>“Remarkably clean, this bathroom,” said the regular as soon as he’d caught his breath, extracting his arms from around the other’s neck.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yep, very clean. Could win awards,” the other agreed, hands moving from the regular's hips to his own to tuck his shirt back into his trousers.</p>
<p>“We have,” Jaime told them, playing along in the hopes that it would get them out the door faster. “Not, er, not for the bathrooms. Other things. Food things. Drink things. Normal pub things.”</p>
<p>“How marvellous!” the regular chimed. “I’m not surprised, the food here is always excellent. Don’t you agree, Crowley? I know it was your first time, but you must have formed some opinion on the subject.”</p>
<p>“Was alright, yeah,” ‘Crowley’ sniffed, “good pick on your part. Could see myself coming back here, if you like, Aziraphale.”</p>
<p>“Glad to hear you gents enjoyed it so much,” Jaime said, his customer-service-loving heart at war with his complete-privacy-loving bowels.</p>
<p>“Oh, really? You want to—” Aziraphale smiled, ignoring him in favour of making eyes at Crowley. “A second date, then? How about this Sunday, are you free?”</p>
<p>“Could be.”</p>
<p>“You have to book for Sunday lunch. They’ll sort you out at the bar if you just <em>go out</em> <em>and chat to them,</em>” Jaime edged closer to the enticingly open door of the stall.</p>
<p>“We don’t have to come back here of course,” Crowley said, ignoring him in favour of leaning in towards Aziraphale. “My choice of <em> rendezvous </em>next time. Give me a chance to impress you, eh?”</p>
<p>“Well, I<em> do </em>hate to eat at the same place twice in one week,” Aziraphale hummed.</p>
<p>“Something told me that might be the case,” Crowley said, and finally the two started moving towards the door, arguing over where exactly their next date would take place. Jaime smiled patiently at them as they made their very, <em> very </em>slow way there, and started formulating a plan to petition the manager for a separate employee toilet.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Crowley didn’t put in the call until he was safe within the walls of his flat in Mayfair.</p>
<p>“Dick Turpin speaking.”</p>
<p>“It’s me,” Crowley said, pulling off his tie, which hadn’t quite made it back to fully tied after Aziraphale had gotten his hands on it earlier. “What did I tell you about calling yourself that? It’s embarrassing.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see why I can’t give myself a code name, Crowley,” Newt’s pout was audible, but the boy just didn't have the looks to pull it off, even with the considerable boon of his face not being visible. “Everyone else gets one.”</p>
<p>“Nobody’s stopping you from having a code name,” Crowley said, “just pick something, <em> anything,</em> else. How do you spell ‘separate’?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Separate. Spell it for me.”</p>
<p>“S-E-P-A-R—”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Really. Er, why?”</p>
<p>“No reason. Could have sworn there was another ‘e’ in there somewhere. Schedule me a meeting with Bub, yeah? ASAP.”</p>
<p>The sound of Newt clacking away at his keyboard filled the line for a moment.</p>
<p>“What’s the subject of the meeting?”</p>
<p>“Updating my cover, and returning to field work.”</p>
<p>“Right, right, updating… cover… returning to… <em> Returning to field work?"</em></p>
<p>Crowley grinned. “Yep.”</p>
<p>“So you— you, ah, so I’m taking it the date went well, then?”</p>
<p>“He’s perfect. It’s gonna take a while—he’s <em> fussy, </em>likes things <em> just so,</em> he’ll want to be wooed and courted and all that jazz—but I reckon I can do it within the year, give or take. Plus it means more time to set down roots, build up a life, really flesh ol’ Anthony J. out before I’m back in business. Do we have any on-hand docs that can make it look like I work somewhere in The City?”</p>
<p>“Is the Pope Catholic?” Newt snorted down the line. “Should be simple enough to add to your file, you’ve used that one before. I’m taking it that’s the story you, or, er, the story that <em>Anthony </em>gave him?”</p>
<p>“No! That’s the best part, he just <em> assumed </em> and ran with it, didn’t even have to confirm or deny. Thinks he’s clever, so he won’t ask too many questions about what’s going on because he’ll always think he <em> knows </em> more than he actually ever could.” </p>
<p>Crowley, of course, knew that Aziraphale didn’t just <em> think </em> he was clever, but there was clever and there was <em> clever. </em>It would take more than a handsome face and an educated guess to figure him out, but Aziraphale would never get that far. Crowley would make sure of it.</p>
<p>“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were excited about this,” Newt said. “Is he, you know…"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Is he hot?”</p>
<p>“That has absolutely no bearing on my strictly professional decision-making process here,” Crowley said. “But yes.”</p>
<p>“Congratulations,” Newt said. “Okay, you should be receiving the relevant forms to your inbox now to request transfer back to active service, and I’ve got you booked in for a meeting with Bub tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. On a less fun note, are you coming into the office today? Only, I think I’ve done something to the RATs again and could do with your, er, wisdom and guidance and—”</p>
<p>“I’m hanging up now, Dick.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you know, now that you’ve said that out loud I can see why it’s not very good as a code—”</p>
<p>Crowley tossed the phone onto the sofa and grabbed his laptop, scrolling through the forms Newt had sent him and confirming the meeting with Bub had been added to his calendar. Months of shitty dates and <em>years</em> of begrudging desk duty had led to this moment. He was finally in a place where he could sort his life out. Or, rather, sort Anthony J. Crowley, City banker and handsome bachelor-seeking-a-husband’s life out. He knew, if he could just find the right man, it would all slot into place. The perfect job, the perfect home, the perfect life.</p>
<p>The perfect lie.</p>
<p>Crowley hadn’t meant to become a successful hitman for a very powerful and very secretive agency, and he then <em>definitely </em> hadn’t meant to bungle a job so badly that he was demoted to low-paying desk duty for the rest of eternity— with the exception of one Hail Mary loophole that he’d spent the last few months of his life tugging at the edges of until it looked big enough for him to fit through. Agents that could settle down with a long-term cover story—matrimonial alibi in tow—were thin on the ground, but management had made it clear that this was their preferred method of hiding in plain sight. The agency didn’t have a vested interest in whether or not you <em> liked </em> said spouse, of course, and more than a few of his colleagues had been set up by the company with people in various positions of power and influence. Crowley didn’t want that. Crowley wanted to actually <em> choose </em> someone he wouldn’t mind being with for the rest of his life— who he could be, if not <em> totally honest </em> with, then at least partially <em> himself </em>with. </p>
<p>The fact that it would give him the leg up he needed at work was just a coincidental perk. </p>
<p>Crowley wasn’t stupid. The agency <em> liked </em> these sorts of cover story arrangements not just because of the simplicity of the alibi it provided, but because it came with baggage that meant agents were less of a flight risk, had a stable address which the agency could always find them at, and there was the bonus collateral of the family’s lives should the agents turn on their masters. Crowley was pretty sure he wouldn’t have to worry about kids with Aziraphale, so he wouldn’t have that on his conscience should the time ever come, but the rest of it was a bridge he could burn should he come to it. Crowley was sick of pissing his time away, stuck behind a desk while he crept ever closer to getting too old to do the one thing he was actually <em> good </em> at.</p>
<p>He was ready to get back out there and make some trouble.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“And so,” Aziraphale concluded, looking at the faces projected onto the different flickering screens, “as I have demonstrated, I believe that—within the year—I’ll be in a perfect position to be considered for active duty once more.”</p>
<p>He was only a smidge put out when he held for applause and none came.</p>
<p>“I know you’re eager to get back out there, but…” Gabriel trailed off, pulling a face into the camera, “you just met the guy today. How can you be so sure he’s going to want to get hitched?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale held up the manila file marked CROWLEY, ANTHONY J. so that it was in line of sight for the camera. “I believe I explained my rationale very, very clearly. If you would care to take a look at the data I’ve collated on him, you’ll see that—”</p>
<p>Gabriel waved a hand dismissively in front of the screen.</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay, I believe you, no need to bring out the flashcards.” </p>
<p>There was a pause as Aziraphale’s assembled superiors muted themselves to further discuss his life, and his fate, without his input. Aziraphale thought of the very fine lunch he’d had, and the very fine company, and tried not to fidget or let his disdain for this entire farcical process show.</p>
<p>“Very well, Principality,” Metatron’s voice rang through. Aziraphale felt his back straighten a little. The rest of them he could take or leave, but Metatron was Her Right Hand. If he was giving the go-ahead, that meant—</p>
<p>“You have a year to secure the necessary documents, community roots and living arrangements before your appeal to return to duty will be considered. And, Principality? It has to be <em> airtight </em> this time. No more mistakes. No more little <em> fumbles</em>. A decent alibi alone does not a successful agent make. We shall be watching. Do we make ourselves clear?”</p>
<p>“Crystal, sirs. Thank you for this opportunity— I shan’t waste it.”</p>
<p>“Limber up, buddy, you’ll be playing with the big boys again before you know it!” Gabriel, naturally, getting the last word in as always. The screens went blank and Aziraphale caught sight of his reflection in them. He tried not to dwell on the lines around his eyes, or his mouth, or his ever-receding hairline. There had been a part of him, before this week, that had worried that perhaps he <em> was </em> too old to do this now. Too old to date, too old to find a match, too old to use the skills that had been his bread and butter all these years. </p>
<p>Meeting Crowley had changed that. </p>
<p>He looked down at the file that contained the sum total of knowledge he’d been able to gather about Crowley, Anthony J. A fairly standard upper-middle-class life, with a fairly standard upper-middle-class job in The City, and a fairly standard upper-middle-class flat in Mayfair. Some receipts from his recent purchases at the nearest Sainsbury’s Local, a sample of his Amazon search history, his Netflix viewing habits. Nothing remarkable, nothing unusual or untoward, no living family to speak of and no prior long-term romantic entanglements to <em> complicate </em> things should an ex come knocking. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t being a braggart when saying that, if this was the sum total of knowledge <em> he </em> had been able to gather on Crowley, then it was the sum total of knowledge that existed about Crowley in the <em> world</em>. The organisation had, after all, hired him for his research skills.</p>
<p>Well, he considered as he slipped out of the communications room, the Self Help section swinging shut behind him to cover the hidden entrance. His research skills, yes, and also his almost uncanny prowess when it came to assassination. </p>
<p>Aziraphale found himself singing a little Sondheim ditty under his breath as he headed for his desk, wanting to put his next dinner with Crowley into his datebook before it slipped his mind to do so. For the first time since the start of this gruelling endeavour to regain his old position, he almost felt a little <em> excited. </em> Crowley would never truly <em> know him, </em>of course. It was out of the question, which was a shame, as they had so much else in common. </p>
<p>“Keep a tender distance, <em> bom bom-bom bom bom…</em>” </p>
<p>It was odd, Aziraphale thought, printing Crowley’s name in neat copperplate next to that Sunday’s date. Marriage had never been something he’d considered for himself before now, before it became the final piece of the puzzle, but he had a suspicion that being married to Crowley would be <em> fun,</em> at the very least. A sham, yes, but a fun sham. Oh, there would be fights, certainly, and difficult days, but as far as Aziraphale was aware that was all part and parcel of the genuine marriage experience. He liked the idea of as much of it as possible being <em> genuine. </em> It was important to him that this not just be the means to an end for his employment. He had a year to reckon with his myriad feelings on the matter, anyhow. A mere twenty-four hours ago, Aziraphale had been worried that setting himself a timescale of a year was a bit too much too soon, but as he looked at Crowley’s name in his own handwriting again, he didn’t feel rushed or hurried. He felt <em> impatient.  </em></p>
<p>Sondheim really <em> did </em> know what he was talking about— Aziraphale was ready <em> now. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Arrangement (Several Years Later)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale and Crowley get to work, with differing levels of success.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale woke up to the sound of something breaking in the kitchen. He was up and out of bed in seconds, wired and <em> alert. </em>The book he’d been reading as he nodded off last night threatened to tumble to the floor but he snatched it out of the air before it had a chance to seal his fate, popping it carefully back onto the bedspread before locating the nearest weapon. When he’d initially ordered this particular bed frame he’d thought himself a paranoid old fool, but clearly he’d been on to something— the bedknob hinge opened silently at his touch and he instantly felt more grounded, more in control of the situation as his fingers closed around the handle of the throwing knife concealed within. </p><p>Tiptoeing out of the room, he made sure to cover himself as he moved from doorway to doorway, as he wasn’t certain yet that the intruder hadn’t already made it up to this level of the house. Another clatter from the kitchen refocused his efforts; still contained then, easy enough to deal with. The stairs were a problem— the banister side curved around and down into the open hallway below. No cover whatsoever, if there was more than one of them—though Aziraphale’s instincts told him there wasn’t—things might get a little <em> sticky.</em> He took several deep breaths, wished he’d had the foresight to grab a second knife, and began his descent. No immediate assailant put in an appearance before he reached the bottom step, the soles of his feet meeting the floorboards of the hall with a slightly softer tread than he’d allowed himself on the carpet. He still had the upper hand here. The door to the kitchen was ajar, which it certainly hadn’t been when Aziraphale went to bed the night before. He paused for a moment to gather himself, and make a mental note to call the removal service the second he was done with whatever blaggard had had the temerity to break and enter into <em> his </em> home, when the door to the kitchen unexpectedly swung <em> wide </em> open and—</p><p>“Angel!” Crowley seemed to near jumped out of his skin as they came face-to-face with one another, and almost dropped the breakfast-laden tray he was carrying. The resulting clatter as he saved the small feast—and their flooring—from certain doom covered up the sound of Aziraphale hurriedly flinging his blade into the umbrella stand. <em>“Christ, </em> give me a heart attack why don’t you. What are you doing sneaking around at this hour of the morning? Apart from ruining my plan to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”</p><p>Aziraphale snorted a soft laugh, willing his own heart to return to a somewhat more temperate speed, and moved to his husband's side to press a soft kiss to his temple.</p><p>“Well, my love, the element of surprise does get <em> somewhat </em> lost when you insist on breaking every dish we’ve ever owned at half past seven on a Saturday morning.”</p><p>Crowley tilted his head into the kiss, trying not to look too pleased with himself (and failing as per usual.) “Yeah, not really my fault, you stacked the mugs too close to the door again and I’m not going to say <em> I told you so </em> because I know you hate it when I get to do that—”</p><p>“And yet, here we are. Shall we move this conversation somewhere more comfortable?” He said, starting to head back up the stairs. “If I’m to be slandered once more on the topic of cupboards and how to best organise them, I’d be much obliged if you fed me first. How was your trip? Considering you’re home two days early, I take it the merger or what have you went well.”</p><p>“Six years we’ve been married, <em> six years, </em>and you still think mergers are part of my job description,” Crowley grumbled. “But yeah, the trip was fine, tied everything up much quicker than expected. Even remembered to bring you back some of those little things you like, the squishy things.”</p><p>The debate over exactly which ‘squishy things’ Crowley had brought back from Japan for him followed them into the bedroom, continued as Aziraphale polished off every last morsel of his breakfast, and even found itself getting involved during their usual spot of welcome-home lovemaking. Crowley stretched and settled as Aziraphale collapsed down next to him, still and lax in the way he only ever was in the immediate aftermath of a particularly satisfying orgasm.</p><p>“I just don’t see why it’s so terribly difficult to remember the word <em>mochi,”</em> Aziraphale said, idly tracing a finger around the dimples at the small of his husband’s back.</p><p>“You’re a pedantic pain in the arse, and I didn’t miss you even for a moment,” Crowley murmured in retaliation, already half asleep. Aziraphale’s heart swelled almost painfully, thinking on how well he was loved by the man beside him.</p><p>“Well then, you’ll be happy to hear you’ll be rid of me for the rest of the day,” Aziraphale hummed, allowing himself one last lingering kiss before sitting up. Crowley groaned, swatting the bedsheets in a poor effort to keep him there but Aziraphale avoided him with practiced ease. “Stuffy old books won’t sell themselves, you know.”</p><p>“Stuffy ol’ booksellers won’t sell ‘em, either. Stay in bed w’me,” Crowley or, more accurately, Crowley’s pillow said. Aziraphale was briefly tempted. It had been a good few weeks since they’d had the chance to just spend the day in each other’s company, lazing about in bed, or on the sofa, or under the shade of the apple tree in their back garden. London was experiencing a very pleasant bout of sunshine at the moment, and their Tufnell Park townhouse seemed uniquely situated to soak it up. He thought of how pleasant it would be, to relax on the grass for the rest of the day with a blanket and a book and a glass of something refreshing and alcoholic while his husband tended to his garden, humming out-of-tune jazz standards as he went. </p><p>Crowley let out a truly prodigious snore, and Aziraphale huffed fondly as he shelved that mental image away for another weekend. If Crowley had let him know <em> sooner </em> he was coming home early, perhaps Aziraphale could have rescheduled today’s appointment, but it would have been rude to cancel now at such short notice. Besides, Crowley clearly needed the sleep if the decibel level of his snoring was anything to go by. Aziraphale pottered through his morning routine—shower, second cup of tea, skincare regime, checking his emails for any work offers or alerts on rogue agents who needed killing urgently, third cup of tea—and was ready to head for the door with minutes to spare, which he spent peppering his slumbering husband’s face with a few extra kisses. Just to ensure he had good dreams, of course, the poor jet-lagged dear.</p><p>Aziraphale's path out the house was rather successfully blocked by Crowley’s haphazard suitcases scattered in the entryway. </p><p>“Honestly, does he <em>want</em> me to break my neck,” he muttered, organising them into a less-deadly arrangement. He was then so distracted by considering the efficiency of conveniently placed suitcases as a means of assassination he completely forgot to retrieve his knife from the umbrella stand. By the time he'd circled back home, recovered it, and arrived at the bookshop Aziraphale had decided there were far too many variables involved, and the potential for failure and survival rate wasn’t worth the benefits of how easily it could be written off as an accident. He flipped the sign on the shop to ‘OPEN’ and then added the ‘BY APPOINTMENT ONLY’ sign alongside it, locking the door behind him. His coat hung up, he dropped the needle on the gramophone and rolled up his shirtsleeves in time to the opening strains of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. He wondered if perhaps there was time for another cup of tea, but just then his phone chimed in his pocket. Aziraphale popped his glasses on the bridge of his nose and peered down at it, making sure all the appropriate hallmarks were in place legitimising the job and confirming his instructions. The tea would have to wait. Time to get to work.</p><p>“Good morning, Minister,” Aziraphale smiled as he stepped into the backroom. “I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable during the night.”</p><p>The Minister still had a bit of fight left in him, struggling against the restraints tying him to the wooden chair and mouthing pleas that were obfuscated by the rudimentary gag. Normally, Aziraphale found gagging his targets uncouth, and not at all civil, but it had been something of a necessity in this case. Ever the politician, the Minister had tried every trick in the book to wiggle out of his predicament and—while Aziraphale wasn’t made of stone—it was hard to muster up much sympathy for a man who had used his power to do the sort of things that the Minister had done. Once he’d moved on from begging, to bargaining, to <em> threats </em> <em> against Aziraphale’s loved ones,</em> it had been an easy decision to stop his mouth entirely.</p><p>“Yes, well, I’m afraid it’s bad news this morning,” Aziraphale tutted, starting to absentmindedly pat at his pockets. “I know I said that there was a fair chance you might be able to live when I left here yesterday, and I do so <em> hate </em> being the one to give false hope, but it seems there was a change of plans overnight. Breakdown of communications, something to do with negotiations at the other end of all this. They don’t tend to tell me specifics, you see, I just—ah! <em> There’s </em> the bugger.”</p><p>He pulled the knife from the concealed pocket at the hem of his trousers. Upon seeing it, the Minister stilled instantly. He remained still as Aziraphale arranged the plastic sheeting around the chair<em>—</em><em>"the rug was a gift from my husband you see, Minister, he travels for business and loves to bring me souvenirs when he can and I’m ever so fond of this one so I wouldn’t want anything spoiling it, I believe it’s from Morocco and he’s not there often so it really </em> <b> <em>would</em> </b> <em> be a dreadful shame”— </em> and remained still when Aziraphale debated having that fourth cup of tea beforehand after all—<em>”I find a routine helps in these matters, a little pomp and ceremony, but it doesn’t exactly calm my nerves, all that caffeine, so perhaps not”—</em>and only moved again when Aziraphale cut his body loose from the restraints, after it was over.</p><p>A short series of knocks in a familiar pattern at the front door announced the arrival of Aziraphale’s afternoon appointment, right on time. The Express Driver hovered on the front step, cheery smile as always on his face, a towering stack of boxes balanced expertly on his toe sack truck.</p><p>“Afternoon, Mr. Fell! I’m expecting a collection from you.”</p><p>“Yes, come in my good man, come in. It’s rather a heavy one today, will you have room?”</p><p>“Don’t you worry about that, sir,” the Driver smiled, and swung open the false door on the front of the various boxes to reveal the concealed space within. What appeared on the surface to be a mismatched stack of parcels was actually a portable trunk and, though Aziraphale wasn’t an expert on this side of the operation, he suspected it might have been refrigerated somehow. It was also perfectly Minister-sized. “You wouldn’t believe how innovative packaging is these days. Might take me a while to get the cargo loaded up, though, so if it's not too cheeky of me— any chance of a cuppa?”</p><p>“Do you know,” Aziraphale smiled, directing him towards the back room, “I was <em> just </em> about to pop the kettle on.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The moment Aziraphale was out the door, Crowley leapt into action.</p><p>Well, alright, <em> maybe </em> he slept for another hour or so— he probably could have dealt with the change in time zone without needing a kip, but Aziraphale was always enthusiastic to the point of wearing him out whenever he got back from a business trip. If he didn’t hate being away so much, Crowley would almost consider more foreign assignments on the basis of the welcome-home sex alone.</p><p>Anyway, the moment Aziraphale was out the door, Crowley waited an hour and <em>then</em> leapt into action.</p><p>He nipped downstairs to collect his suitcases, and was impressed with himself at how neatly he’d left them— normally he got an earful about tripping hazards so clearly he was growing as a person. Back upstairs Crowley stripped down the bedding and started going through his togs from the job, seeing if there was anything that would have Aziraphale asking awkward questions if it ended up in the wash at home. The ones that had been stained beyond repair had been dumped and destroyed before he'd got back on the plane, but sometimes you just can’t bring yourself to get rid of a Balenciaga, even if it has got some poor bastard’s blood on the hem. Satisfied, he stuffed the bedding and his clothing into laundry bags, and then took his time in the shower. Crowley hissed slightly as the hot water hit a tender part of his back. Some scratches, felt like. He quickly sorted through memories of the last few days— when the hell had someone had gotten close enough to hurt him, and how on earth had Aziraphale refrained from commenting on them that morning? Normally he pitched a fit if Crowley got so much as a <em>paper cut,</em> while also managing to mock him mercilessly about it even as he fluttered about like a mother hen with the plasters. He twisted awkwardly to run his fingers along what he reckoned were four long, perfectly square grooves dug into the meat of his shoulder blade and then realised with a grin that <em>Aziraphale</em> had been the one to put them there. <em> Kinky bugger, </em>he thought, and let himself be distracted with thoughts of his husband as he finished up his morning routine, which ended—as it always did—well past lunchtime. </p><p>“Call the office,” Crowley said, settling into the Bentley with his cargo in tow. </p><p><em> Calling The Office </em> she replied dutifully as he pulled into traffic.</p><p>“Seventh Cycle Laundry Service, how can I help you today?”</p><p>“Morning Newt.”</p><p>“Crowley? It’s, it’s afternoon, actually but— you’re not back already, are you?”</p><p>“Yep. Got some things to drop off, Hastur and Ligur aren’t about, are they?”</p><p>“Er,” a pause as Newt’s frantic typing filled the line, “no, not today, think they’re out for the rest of the week actually, but—”</p><p>“Great! Be with you in five, got someone else on the line.”</p><p>“No, hang on, Cro—”</p><p>Crowley hung up, and was surprised to see he actually did have another call waiting. Luck of the devil. </p><p>“Good afternoon, angel.”</p><p>“Oh, good, you’re up, I was worried I might have disturbed your— hang on, are you driving?”</p><p>Crowley winced.</p><p>“If I say yes, are you going to be all,” he pulled a face, “about it."</p><p>“I am<em> not </em>getting all,” there was a pause as Aziraphale presumably pulled the exact same face, “about it, I am just <em>concerned</em> that you arrived home off a long-haul flight, were perfectly <em>worn out </em>when I left you—”</p><p>“Nobody likes a show-off.”</p><p>“—and now you’re up and about, <em> terrorising the pedestrian population </em> for seemingly no good reason<em>. </em>Don’t tell me you’re going into that infernal office.”</p><p>“Right then, I won’t.”</p><p>Aziraphale sighed. Crowley knew that being worried <em> all the time </em> was part of the whole ‘being in love with someone’ experience, but he didn't much like the idea of being the source of that worry. It wasn't that he felt guilty or anything, he wasn't built that way, but still. It was the <em>way</em> Aziraphale sighed, like a sailor's wife after a storm trying to hold it all together as she looks out over the horizon, real dramatic stuff. If Crowley weren't completely devoted to his guilt-free lifestyle, it might have pushed him over the edge and made him turn back home, but he was resolute. Firm. And he couldn't do a U-turn on this street again without getting another bloody ticket.</p><p>Anyway, he comforted himself, if Aziraphale knew what his husband actually got up to on a day-to-day basis he'd <em>really</em> have something to worry about. Over-tiredness and a demanding desk job were a blessing, comparatively. </p><p>“Well, I suppose, if you’re already out of the house…” Aziraphale’s voice had that tone to it.</p><p>“Ohhh, this is a <em> ‘I want something, Crowley, please can you go and fetch it for me’ </em> conversation, isn’t it? And here’s me thinking you were just checking in because you love me.”</p><p>“The Potts-Shadwell household are coming over for dinner tonight,” Aziraphale said, ignoring both Crowley’s comments and immediate groans of protest on the delivery of this news. “Initially they were keeping your poor, lonely husband company while you were off gallivanting around the globe, and I'm hardly going to cancel on them, but obviously the menu will now have to be changed to reflect the <em>ongoing situation.”</em></p><p>“So sorry for the inconvenience. Can piss off back to Japan, if you like,” Crowley said, not at all feeling hurt at the acidity behind Aziraphale’s last remark.</p><p>“No, sorry, darling, I didn't mean you. They’ve only <em> just </em> informed me that they have family staying this weekend, which means two extra mouths to feed tonight as well as you, so I’m a bit thrown off. You know I don’t like last-minute planning. Tracy said it slipped her mind entirely to tell me until this morning, though how she thought I would miraculously feed these people come this evening I have <em> no </em> idea.”</p><p>“You know what would solve this problem? If we didn’t ever have the Potts-Shadwell household over for dinner, <em> ever again.</em><em>”</em> Crowley said. “But yes, alright. Email me the shopping list, I won’t be in the office long so I can get everything you need. Want me to pick you up from the shop after? Presumably your appointment isn’t going to take all day, I know you bookish types have a habit of being work-shy, unlike us upstanding citizens with proper jobs.”</p><p>“I'm choosing to rise above that remark. A lift would be wonderful, dearest, thank you. Ta-ta for now!” Aziraphale said, and the call disconnected just as Crowley pulled up outside the front of the office. He gathered the two separate laundry bags and pushed through the doors of Seventh Cycle with his usual subtlety, eyes on his phone where Aziraphale’s email had just come through. </p><p>“Afternoon, Dick,” Crowley said, dumping the bags on the front desk and finally looking up into the familiar face of his most gormless colleague.</p><p>“Mr. Crowley!” Newt said, doing something very weird with his eyes where they had gotten very wide, and he kept rolling them over to the left. “I was trying to tell you over the phone, today’s not a good day for—”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, vaulting himself over the counter. “I need two machines prepping, and then you and I need to chat about—”</p><p>“Are customers normally allowed to do that?”</p><p>Crowley froze, his fingertips twitching as he fought off the automatic urge to reach for a weapon that wouldn't be there, because he hadn't expected to be ambushed at the office. He turned, slowly, and finally saw what Newt’s panicked glances had been trying to get him to notice. There, sitting in the laundrette front that concealed the entrance to the very secretive and shady organisation Crowley and Newt worked for, was a woman. A woman that he didn’t know, dressed like she’d just come from a Salem Witch Trial Society reenactment, and giving him the sort of unimpressed look from behind her round specs he usually only suffered from his husband. </p><p>“Newton,” Crowley smiled, putting his hand on the back of Newt’s neck and letting his tone slide from <em> friendly </em> into <em> dangerously chummy, </em>“who might this be?”</p><p>Newt yelped slightly as Crowley’s fingers tightened. </p><p>“A-ah, yes, Mr. Crowley, this is Anathema Device! She’s my, well, she’s sort of… she’s uh, she—”</p><p>“I’m his girlfriend,” Anathema Device said, inexplicably.</p><p><em> “You?” </em> Crowley asked, momentarily shocked enough to let go of Newt’s neck.</p><p>“Me,” Anathema said, not clarifying matters any further for Crowley. “Who are you?”</p><p>“Nobody important,” said Crowley, at the exact same time as Newt said “He works here!”</p><p>Anathema didn't respond to this but her smile spoke volumes. Crowley smiled back with a few too many teeth for good measure, and held up a finger in the universally-recognised sign for <em> please hold a moment while I take this idiot into the back and murder him. </em> She gestured magnanimously in return, as if to say <em> please take your time with the idiot, </em>and diverted her attention down to the tattered old book sat on her lap. </p><p>The second Crowley had finished dragging Newt and his squeaky office chair into the supply cupboard, Newt started babbling.</p><p>“Okay, look, Crowley, I know what you’re going to say, I <em> know what you’re going to say,</em> but you’ve met her, she’s so <em> forceful </em> and I told her, I said, it’s very boring all day long at the office, and so she said <em> well I don’t see why I can’t come keep you company if it’s just a boring laundry service, </em>and so I said—”</p><p>Crowley closed his eyes, letting the boy chunter on as he transported himself to a happier place, where he was already at home that night and eating Aziraphale’s <em> fantastic </em> cooking, and maybe having another round of welcome-home sex after their guests had gone. They hadn’t had a go on the kitchen counters for a while, and Aziraphale was nothing if not inventive in the kitchen. Crowley wondered if the scratches he could still feel rubbing against the material of his shirt were a spontaneous, once-in-a-blue-moon thing or if he could tempt Aziraphale into a repeat performance. Much to consider. When he came back to the moment, Newt was just finishing up.</p><p>“—and so she’s not seen anything weird or heard anything weird, at least, not until <em> you </em> got here and I <em> did try to warn you </em> but you hung up on me, like you <em> always do.</em> which I’ve been meaning to tell you is frankly unnecessary and more than a bit rude.”</p><p>“While I’m impressed with your first foray into the world of dating—and mazel tov, by the way, on finally developing that backbone—she <em> can’t be here,</em><em>”</em> Crowley hissed, poking him in the chest to punctuate his point.</p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be some amazing, super-skilled, killing machine field agent?!” Newt retorted, poking him back. “Don’t you automatically sweep every place when you get there, or whatever? How did you not notice her when you came in?”</p><p>“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a glorified receptionist! I shouldn’t have to sweep the entrance to the office<em>, </em> because keeping the office clear of unwanted guests is your <em> one useful function!” </em> Crowley snarled. If he had been interested in being fair, Crowley probably <em> should </em> have noticed her, but he had been distracted by Aziraphale’s ridiculously specific shopping list. He’d hoped he could just nip into the big Sainsbury’s, but Aziraphale had listed next to each item the particular <em> boutique supplier </em> he expected them to be purchased from. He refused to blame his husband, or himself, or to start being fair now at the grand old age of forty-nine, so the fault fell squarely on Newt’s very round shoulders.</p><p>“Please don’t make me get rid of her,” Newt said, and—oh, Christ—started <em>wobbling his lip,</em> “I really like her, Crowley. I want her to really like me. She <em> does </em> really like me, for some reason! She’s even agreed to meet my family! This is a big deal for me, please don’t blow it and <em> please </em>don’t tell anyone she was here.”</p><p>Crowley wrung his hands around the air in front of Newt’s neck and let out a string of guttural noises to let the boy know exactly how he felt about being an accomplice to this, before admitting defeat. </p><p>“Fine, <em> fine</em>. We’ll find a way to write up my report <em> later—</em>and by we I mean you—and you’re washing both bags I brought in without any complaints this time. Fair?”</p><p>“Is one of them your sex laundry?” Newt asked, with the resigned air of a man who had been in this situation before and already knew the answer.</p><p>“Funny, that almost sounded like a <em> complaint,” </em> Crowley said, already heading back out into the main body of the shop. Anathema was giving off very strong <em> no I wasn’t just leaning over the counter to try and listen to the two of you </em> vibes, nose still buried in her book and looking for all the world like she hadn't moved an inch. Unluckily for her, the supply cupboard had been soundproofed back in ‘09 after the Tibetan Monk incident. </p><p>“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Device, but I’m afraid I’ll have to find some other time to spend in your scintillating company,” Crowley said, sliding back over the top of the counter.</p><p>“Short shift, huh?” Anathema asked, smiling up at him in a way that Crowley didn’t trust <em> at all.</em> On the one hand, if Newt had somehow started dating a honey trap, that would be incredibly bad for business. But, on the other, it would be <em> very funny </em>for him personally. Crowley decided generously to let this whole situation play out a bit longer, for the boy’s sake (and the comedy potential). No reason to get involved further, he’d probably never see her again.</p><p>“Work smart, not hard, that’s what I always say,” Crowley, who had never said that before in his life, said. “Soft wash on the sex sheets, Newt, there’s a lad. Ciao!”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Crowley, be a dear and come taste this for me,” Aziraphale called, angling himself towards the back doors so his voice would carry outside. Crowley came slinking into the house a few moments later, but danced around Aziraphale’s attempts to hand him a spoon.</p><p>“Been in Little Alnwick, angel, gimme a minute,” he grunted, nudging on the tap with his elbow and washing his hands vigorously. Aziraphale rolled his eyes— Little Alnwick was Crowley’s pet project that he’d started excitedly planning out before they even <em> bought </em> the house. Quite how someone as accident-prone as his husband thought a poison garden was a good idea was beyond Aziraphale, but it made Crowley happy and that was enough for him. Aziraphale had briefly toyed with the idea of distilling his own poisons from the plants for work but, after a perfunctory stint of research explained just how finicky to make—and how <em> slow acting </em> —many plant-based poisons were, had decided it was a fool’s errand. Besides, Crowley would notice if cuttings were disappearing from the garden and that would open up a whole line of questioning Aziraphale had worked very hard these last seven years to avoid.</p><p>Still, he had a few phials of various antidotes hidden amongst the flavour extracts in his baking cupboard, just in case he ever felt the need to branch out. Or in case Crowley ever accidentally poisoned himself. Aziraphale suspected the latter had a much higher chance of coming to pass than the former.</p><p>“Right, budge over,” Crowley said, shaking the water off his fingertips and taking the spoon at last. “Me and my superior taste buds are here to give our verdict.”</p><p>Aziraphale swatted him gently and tried not to feel too anxious as Crowley’s mouth closed around a dollop of the blue cheese mornay. Aziraphale could easily look a man in the eye as he bled the last of his life force from him, but the idea of catching even a glimpse of displeasure crossing his husband’s face because of something he’d cooked was like a knife in the gut. Ironically.</p><p>“Well? How is it?”</p><p>Crowley closed his eyes and sighed softly, and Aziraphale’s chest plummeted for an instant before he was grabbed around the waist and wetly kissed on the cheek. </p><p>“It’s perfect, which I’m sure you already knew and now you’re fishing for compliments like you <em> always </em> do.”</p><p>“Oh, really? You think it’s perfect?” He squirmed, trying to keep the smile off his face as he cast his line to see what else he might catch.</p><p>“Maybe a touch more salt but otherwise, yes, perfect. Stupendous. A triumph. Er, what other praises do you want here,” Crowley frowned, mouthing along the line of Aziraphale’s jaw and biting down softly when he reached his earlobe. “I will happily murder anyone who doesn’t exalt this as the best fancy lasagna they’ve ever eaten in their lives, how’s that? And, speaking of, how long until these interlopers invade our home?”</p><p>Aziraphale, free of the torment of his husband’s embrace, layered the last of the sauce on top of the dish and popped it back in the oven without adding any extra salt, because they both knew who <em> actually </em> had the superior taste buds in this house and it wasn’t the man whose default suggestion to improve any meal was <em> ‘maybe a touch more salt’. </em></p><p>“Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes away now. Can you handle slicing some bread so I can go and freshen up without me needing an ambulance on standby?” Aziraphale asked, hanging up his apron and fluffing his hair a bit in the reflection of the oven.</p><p>“Honestly,” Crowley said, reaching for the knife block, “cut yourself on some very sharp sourdough <em> one time—"</em></p><p>“On the sourdough! You cut yourself on <em> bread, </em> darling, that’s not something a man should be allowed to live down.”</p><p>“—and you’ll never live it… er, Aziraphale. Why is there a bayonet in our knife block?”</p><p>Aziraphale spun from the doorway to face his husband, who was indeed holding a Smith &amp; Wesson M9 and not the Kai Shun Premier bread knife he’d received for his last birthday. <em> Bugger. </em></p><p>“A what?” Aziraphale said, fluttering his eyelashes in faux-innocence and wringing his hands. “Crowley, that sounds dangerous!”</p><p>“Yes, well noticed, angel, it is a bayonet after all, <em> what is it doing in our knife block?” </em></p><p>Over the years, there had been several close calls not dissimilar to the one staring Aziraphale in the face at this moment. They were all complete accidents and he managed to cover them up without fail every time because he was a <em>professional,</em> but they gave him pause. He'd never manufacture this sort of situation, of course, he wasn't an idiot, however... whenever opportunity presented itself, he couldn't help but wonder if this was the world giving him a chance. A chance to throw caution to the wind, pull his husband to his chest and tell him the truth about everything. All of it. Who he was. What he did. What he’d <em>done</em>. Crowley liked a bit of adventure, and an element of danger—he was among the cavalcade of British men obsessed with those ghastly Bond movies, after all—and Crowley <em>loved</em> him. Maybe, one day, there’d be time for this conversation. For Aziraphale to lay all his cards out on the table and give all of himself to Crowley, the way he wished he could.</p><p>Ten minutes before they were due to have a houseful of guests was <em> not </em> that time, however.</p><p>“Put it down!” he fussed, rushing to Crowley’s side. “If it’s all that dangerous I don’t want you touching it! Oh, I’m going to have to play holy hell with the people at <em> One Stop Chop.” </em></p><p>Crowley’s eyes practically boggled out of their sockets as Aziraphale took a tea towel out of the drawer and wrapped the military grade weaponry up in it.</p><p>“That weird kitchen knife subscription service you tricked me into buying you sent you <em> this? </em> Hang on— am I still paying for that? I bought that on a six-month trial run basis <em> two years ago."</em></p><p>“You know those sorts of companies make it very hard to cancel the subscription once purchased, and you do tend to forget about these things unless someone reminds you,” Aziraphale said, tucking it away in a different drawer where Crowley couldn’t hurt himself on it. How could he have been so <em> stupid </em>as to put it in the knife block? He was getting sloppy in his old age. Too comfortable in this house, in this life. It was a worry but, again, not one he had the luxury of dwelling on when he had a lasagna in the oven. </p><p>“So what you’re saying is, it’s my fault that you didn’t remind me to cancel the very expensive assault-weaponry-hiding-as-kitchenware-subscription service that I bought for you as a gift?” Crowley smirked, and Aziraphale allowed the small wave of relief to wash over him at the sight of it.</p><p>“Did I mention how <em> very </em> grateful I am for your continued generosity, and how <em> very </em> glad I am you didn’t get hurt just then?” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley in by the lapels for a kiss. They would move past this. There wouldn’t be anymore awkward questions, or anything else to fret about. At least for tonight. He allowed Crowley to walk him back the few steps needed to crowd him up against the fridge, the cool surface against his back at war with the hot line of Crowley's body pressed against his chest as their kiss deepened. Aziraphale moaned quietly, fingers winding through Crowley's hair, wondering if they had time for—</p><p>The doorbell rang and they reluctantly separated. </p><p>“Bother,” Aziraphale said, skimming his hands down his shirt once Crowley had taken a step back. “I really did hope I’d have a chance to get changed.”</p><p>“You look fine,” Crowley said, who wore a suit even to <em> garden </em> in and looked impeccable at all times, though Aziraphale tried not to tell him that too often lest he get a swelled head. “Come on, let’s go let the riffraff in.”</p><p>They moved to the front door in tandem, and Aziraphale quickly smoothed down Crowley’s collar where it had gotten a little wonky before he threw the door open. He and Tracy kissed each other on the cheek as Douglas and Crowley exchanged terse nods. </p><p>“Welcome my dears,” Aziraphale smiled, peering over Tracy’s shoulder. "Oh, just the two of you? I thought you said—”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” a skinny young man appeared at the bottom of the steps, struggling to carry a tote bag that looked like it weighed about as much as he did. “Just had to get the wine out the boot of the car, I’m—” </p><p>He looked up and froze, agog at something. Aziraphale smiled politely and looked to Crowley as he always did in these awkward situations, who would no doubt have some fun quip or barbed jest on hand to smooth over the oddity of the exchange, only to see his husband with a matching—if somewhat more subtle—expression.</p><p>“Babe, did you remember to get the—” their fourth guest for the night made herself known— a rather interestingly dressed young woman who had also come to a halt, though was looking much more amused in her shock than either her beau or Crowley.</p><p><em> Someone, </em> Aziraphale thought, <em> is playing silly buggers.   </em></p><p>“Ooh, let me introduce everyone,” Tracy smiled, oblivious to whatever social disaster was occurring around her. “This is our nephew, young Mister Newton Pulsifer, and his new girlfriend Anathema Device. <em> American,”— </em>she murmured this last part, leaning in close to Aziraphale, who nodded sympathetically—“and these are our very old friends, Mister Fell and Mister—”</p><p>“Anthony J. Crowley,” Anathema Device said, with a smile that looked poised to kill, “so pleased we have more time to spend in each other’s <em> scintillating </em> company.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i was going to hold off posting again until tuesday because normally i am bound by the schedule of having a regular posting day but then i realised i didn't have to live that way? at all? i am free, untethered. i am my own person, and adult in charge of their own schedule. i can eat a bowl of cereal at midnight and nobody can stop me. </p><p>so, here is the fanfiction equivalent of a bowl of cereal at midnight for you. enjoy xxx</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Cover Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley tries to survive a dinner party. Aziraphale's shoes don't make it out alive.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley momentarily wished he had accidentally gutted himself with the thrice-damned bread bayonet. It would have been much less painful than this.</p><p>Nobody moved. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s potent mix of curiosity, suspicion, and (most heady of all) annoyance at being <em> out of the loop </em> like a physical weight pressing down on him. <em> Think, idiot, think, </em> Crowley thought idiotically, <em> just say you know her from work! No, she won’t go along with a lie like that, look at her, she’s having too much fun ruining your life. Half truth? You know Newt, go with that, oh except you’ve literally never mentioned him before and Aziraphale is going have something to say about that at some point— </em></p><p>“Darling.”</p><p>Apparently, ‘at some point’ was ‘right this second’ and, oh god, that was Aziraphale’s <em> pissed but in polite company about it </em> tone. Crowley tried not to wince as he turned to face his husband.</p><p>“I didn’t realise you’d had the pleasure of meeting our new guests before,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>“Neither did I,” said Crowley, stalling for time by being purposefully obtuse, a tactic that had served him well over the years. “I mean, I knew I’d met them, I didn’t realise they were going to be our guests.”</p><p>“Well this is a surprise! How do you know our Newt?” Tracy cooed, the only person present apart from Anathema who seemed genuinely happy about this little development. Shadwell was no help to anyone at all— trust the man to choose this exact moment, when he could actually be <em> useful </em>to Crowley as a distraction, to downgrade his political leanings from 'loudly getting involved where he wasn’t wanted' to 'Switzerland'.</p><p>“He does our laundry—” Crowley quickly said, before Anathema could finish the sentence he saw gleefully forming behind those perfect American teeth and, in a stroke of genius, leant to murmur in Aziraphale’s ear, “—our <em> personal </em> laundry.”</p><p>His husband took a moment and then made a small <em> ‘oh’ </em> face of understanding, before looking very keen to move the conversation along apace. Crowley privately congratulated himself on being the cleverest bastard alive. </p><p>“Bumped into them when I dropped my holiday togs off earlier today, canoodling at work and making doe eyes at each other over the counter,” Crowley continued aloud. Newt looked about ready to collapse in relief, which was rich of him considering he had done nothing to alleviate the situation so far, and Anathema once again attempted to say something but before she could go on she was interrupted by a loud beeping coming from inside the house. <em> Deus Ex Lasagna</em><em>,</em> Crowley thought.</p><p>“Ah! That’s my cue to leave you for the moment. Welcome, welcome, please come in, make yourselves comfortable, Crowley will take your coats,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder as he hurried back to the kitchen. </p><p>Once Crowley had carefully disposed of everyone’s coats by dumping them in a big pile on the chair in the hallway, he led their guests into the living room.</p><p>“Nice place,” Anathema said, wandering around to examine walls surrounding the fireplace, where the built-in bookshelves were lined with some of Aziraphale’s less-cherished books. Crowley followed her over while the others fussed about seating arrangements, and she quietly added for his benefit. “Maybe a bit above the pay-grade of the average laundromat worker, hmm?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Crowley sniffed, distracting himself from impending doom by wondering how long it would take before Aziraphale noticed if he stuck little ‘L’ over the Ns on every ‘Jo Nesbo’ novel they owned, “depends on whose laundry you’re doing, I suppose. You can’t think good old Liz is doing her own. Big tipper, our sovereign, though she’d never admit it if asked— strangely modest for a woman who spends half the time with a boatload of priceless gems stacked on top of her head.”</p><p>“I’m not that sort of American,” Anathema said, frowning at the cracked spines on the Flemings.</p><p>“What sort?”</p><p>“The sort you can sidetrack by talking about the Royal family.”</p><p>“God, don’t let Tracy know, she won’t be happy about you continuing to date her precious nephew with that sort of anti-monarchist sentiment,” Crowley smirked. He thought this had been a fairly innocent statement, all things considered, but he must have miscalculated somewhere because Anathema looked like the cat that got the bloody cream. She skipped away from him, apparently now done with whatever mind games she was attempting to play, clearly finding the rather uninspiring selection of books on the other side of the fireplace more interesting. Crowley still couldn’t figure her out. Right now he was leaning more and more towards his honey trap theory, and it was looking less and less funny by the minute. </p><p>“Sit down, laddie! You look <em>peculiar, </em>hoverin’ like that,'' Shadwell grunted from behind them, and Crowley turned to ascertain whether or not this was a pejorative ‘peculiar’ directed at him but soon realised it was just a regular derogatory one chucked Newt’s way, who was indeed hovering in the doorway still. Anathema inspected the bookshelves for a few more seconds before peeling away to deposit herself on the largest sofa to watch the scene play out in front of her.</p><p>“I, I just didn’t know if the— the wine,” Newt said, the tote bag clinking as he held it aloft as though it was trying to corroborate his story. “Maybe Mr. Crowley could, uh, <em> take me to the kitchen or something—” </em> he started winking furiously out of the eye closest to the seated occupants of the room, then realised his mistake, stopped and switched to the one on the other side of his face “—and, and then we could <em> talk about the wine. </em>Privately. Together. In— in private.”</p><p>“Are you feeling alright, love?” Tracy said, peering at him. “Something in your eye?”</p><p>“Glasses must have steamed up—happens sometimes with the heating in this house—alright yes let’s go put the wine in the cellar, lovely, make yourselves comfortable, won’t be long!” Crowley’s run-on sentence carried him out the room, pushing Newton ahead of him with a bit more force than might have been strictly necessary but was absolutely well-deserved, in Crowley’s opinion. Once they were in the hallway, Newt started whispering frantically.</p><p>“Crowley, oh my god, you have to believe me I had <em> no idea—” </em></p><p>“Shut up,” Crowley said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he stalked past him, “just shut up, and get down those stairs.”</p><p>He didn’t look over his shoulder to check, but knew Newt would follow. The route to the cellar took them by the kitchen and Crowley quickly poked his head in.</p><p>“Everything alright with dinner, angel?”</p><p>“Hm? Oh, yes, perfectly fine, dear heart,” Aziraphale replied distractedly, in the middle of eyeing two different balsamics like he was about to torture them for information on their flavour profiles. Good, they had time. Newt also poked his head round the door, all but gawking at Aziraphale. Crowley rolled his eyes and shoved the kid on down the last flight of stairs. </p><p>Once in the cellar, Crowley shut the door behind them. He advanced on Newt, who must’ve been taking classes on how to act like a pathetic assault victim from the particular pitch of his yelp as he slammed himself back into the corner of the room. He also dropped the tote bag, which Crowley darted forward and saved before the contents became the next great tragedy of the evening. He then moved to the table in the middle of the room, calmly unpacking the bag and waiting for his colleague to realise he remained unmolested.</p><p>“Are you— are you going to kill me?” Newt finally broke the silence. “Oh god, this is the room where you bring people to kill them, isn’t it?”</p><p>Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to count to ten and getting stuck somewhere around <em> one, two, three, I’m stuck in my home with the biggest dullard on the planet and my husband is currently making him a salad dressing. </em></p><p>“Why on earth would I make a habit of killing people in my own wine cellar? How, <em> how </em> do you still have your job?”</p><p>Newt mumbled something that sounded remarkably like <em> nobody else will put up with you </em> but Crowley decided that couldn’t possibly be what Newton Pulsifer had chosen to say to him in that exact moment, because then Crowley actually would have to start killing people in his own wine cellar effective immediately.</p><p>Unlike his husband, Crowley normally wasn’t too bothered by plans changing at the eleventh hour. His last end of year review had commended him on being imaginative, adaptable and having an uncanny ability to get himself out of trouble, even though he’d mostly been the one to cause the trouble in the first place. In this case. Crowley was pretty sure he had found himself unexpectedly in the middle of someone <em> else’s </em> trouble—specifically, Newt’s trouble—and he wanted to extract himself with as little injury to his body and his pride as possible. Letting Newt in on his suspicions about Anathema would only panic the lad, and a panicked Newt was a liability. An unpanicked Newt was also a liability, in all honesty, but one much less prone to blurting out something weird and making a complete hash of Crowley’s desire to <em> stay out of it. </em></p><p>“Right, Newt,” Crowley said, picking up a bottle at random and making an impressed noise despite himself as he caught sight of the label— the American clearly had money <em> and </em> a decent palate, “here’s what’s going to happen this evening. We are going to go back upstairs. We are going to open this wine, and you and I are going to have <em> one glass</em><em>,</em> which we are then going to nurse for the entire night. I’ll be in charge of pouring, so I will make it <em> look </em> like we’re drinking more than we are. With me so far?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t actually like red, so—”</p><p>“Even better, because then you won’t be tempted to drink it and <em> get drunk.” </em></p><p>“Oh. <em> Ohhh!” </em></p><p>“It’s a great comfort to me, Newton, to know I have you here to get us through this evening,” Crowley sighed. “Right, so, don’t get drunk, <em> do </em> make polite small talk with everyone but keep your answers short and don’t try to lead the conversation. I’ll handle that for the most part anyway. All you have to do is tell your girlfriend you lied about us working together to make yourself look cooler by association, and that I played along with it because I feel sorry for you, and <em> that </em> is what we came down here to discuss. That is, after all, much more believable than the truth. Got that?” </p><p>“Got it,” Newt said, miserably, “but can I just say that—”</p><p>“Nope, absolutely not. Stick with my plan, follow my lead, get through dinner and then we will never, <em> ever </em>speak of this evening again once it’s over. Oh, and make sure you talk about how good Aziraphale’s food is as much as is humanly possible.”</p><p>Newt meekly raised his hand. Crowley blinked, then reluctantly gestured for him to speak.</p><p>“Is, er, is that part of the lying?”</p><p>“Is what part of the lying?”</p><p>“Aziraphale, his cooking, is it—”</p><p>Crowley felt something inside of him finally snap. Was overdue, really, all things considered.</p><p>“No it’s not part of the bloody lying! And, if we do this right, we won’t have to lie at all! We’re just… tactically avoiding complete truthfulness.”</p><p>“TACT?”</p><p>“Yes, tact, something you seem to be devoid of entirely.”</p><p>“No, I mean, that’s an acronym. TACT— tactically avoiding complete truthfulness.”</p><p>“I’m going back upstairs now,” Crowley said, but made a private note to write down the TACT thing for later. The organisation loved that sort of buzzword, corporate speak nonsense. He could probably bill them for writing some sort of training manual on ‘tactically avoiding complete truthfulness’— wouldn’t rake in the sort of money that killing people did, but every little helps, and he was determined that something positive needed to come out of this complete shitshow of an evening. He could handle this. He was trained for this. He was smooth, and he was suave, and he could get himself through this one awkward night without drawing any attention to himself. Nobody would be any the wiser.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley was being <em> odd. </em></p><p>It wasn’t that out of the ordinary, Aziraphale pondered, for his husband to behave in a manner one might call—if one were so inclined—<em>quirky. </em> Aziraphale was not so inclined. Quirkiness was a descriptor best reserved for ditzy protagonists and yarn shop owners, but there was undeniably some manner of bee in Crowley’s bonnet that evening. It wasn’t that Aziraphale minded the various trips down memory lane Crowley seemed determined to take him and their guests on over dinner, it was just that, well. He seemed so frantic about it for one thing and was, for another, only telling the most <em> mundane </em> of their stories in Aziraphale’s less than humble opinion. As though he were desperately trying to get across that they were just some humdrum, ordinary, run-of-the-mill couple. Aziraphale may not have wanted any intense scrutiny drawn to his lifestyle and activities, but he wouldn’t have minded being made to sound a <em> touch </em> more exciting than Crowley was letting on.</p><p>“And so,” Crowley was finishing off one such anecdote now as the meal drew to a close, “in the end we decided that vertical tiles in a kitchen weren’t such a decorating faux pas after all.”</p><p>Very odd indeed. </p><p>“Dinner was lovely, Mr. Fell,” Anathema took the opportunity to speak when Crowley had his wine glass to his lips.</p><p>“I’m chuffed to bits you enjoyed it, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled. “I had hoped it would go over well, I’m always at odds and ends over what to cook when we have guests.”</p><p>“Oh, give over,” Tracy snorted, tossing a balled up napkin at him, “you would have cooked whatever you wanted to cook regardless.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know I actually <em> did </em> adjust the menu, once someone had the courtesy to inform me I’d have a fuller table than expected,” Aziraphale retorted.</p><p>“I was hardly going to say no, was I? It’s nice, to see a young girl with that much interest in her partner’s ancient relatives. Newt was dragging his heels a bit, but when I told Anathema about the two of you she practically <em> insisted </em>they tag along. Crowley, love— you alright?”</p><p>Crowley clearly had decided wine was for inhaling rather than drinking, as he had started sputtering while Tracy was talking. Aziraphale handed him the napkin projectile to cough into.</p><p>“I wasn’t dragging my feet,” Newton Pulsifer said, possibly the first words Aziraphale had heard him speak all night. “It’s only that I, er, I didn’t want to disturb anyone. Seemed a bit rude, inviting ourselves to dinner. Not, not that I think you’re rude, Anathema! I just—” he shot a look across the table at Crowley, who was still recovering from all the wine in his lungs, “—just didn’t want to intrude, even if I had <em> no idea </em>who we’d be intruding on.”</p><p>Aziraphale thought the lad might hurt himself, grovelling like that. He could understand why Newt was embarrassed, though, they did get through an awful lot of—how had Crowley phrased it?—<em>personal </em> laundry. They both hated the dismal process of putting a wash on, and Aziraphale had never given thought to the fact that there was a person going through their unmentionables every week. Crowley just bagged everything up as needed, disappeared off with it on his way to the office and would return home with fresh sheets to kickstart a new round of amiable arguing about who had the unfortunate pleasure of wrangling the duvet cover back on. Yes, it had been a little uncomfortable at first, but Aziraphale had almost all but forgotten that Newt was present at his dinner table until this stammering outburst. Crowley seemed to be more affected by it all than he was, judging from the look on his face.</p><p>“No matter, dear boy, I assure you we’re delighted to have you here. Seems like the least we could do, all things considered,” Aziraphale laughed, trying to make a little joke to assure both the boy and his husband that he really was alright with the situation. He stood to gather the plates, and Tracy leapt up to assist, following him into the kitchen and promising everyone she would return with dessert. He was about to ask her if she wouldn’t mind loading the dishwasher while he whipped up the cream when she rounded on him.</p><p>“Something’s not right here,” Tracy said.</p><p>“I know, I know. I should have gotten clotted ahead of time,” Aziraphale replied, “but Crowley was the one with the shopping list and he—”</p><p>“No, you old ninny,” Tracy rolled her eyes. “Tonight! This whole situation. Listen, I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t hold my tongue anymore. I have to tell you something about Newton. About his work.”</p><p>Aziraphale sighed. Tracy was often prone to dramatics, and fits of fancy, and he knew she wouldn’t have been able to resist bringing up their post-coitus laundry practices for much longer. He put down the whisk and gestured for her to get on with it.</p><p>“I think he’s in the life,” she said, voice low and urgent.</p><p>“I <em> beg your pardon?” </em></p><p>“I know it seems a bit out of left field, but that boy— he’s not just some laundrette worker. Keeps odd hours, gets very shifty when you ask him about work. Always has some gadget or another but he’s terrible with technology, breaks ‘em all the time and yet, somehow on a laundryman’s salary, has a replacement within a day or two! All top of the line stuff. I’m telling you, I’m right about this.”</p><p>Aziraphale considered this. As unbelievable as he found the whole notion, he didn’t like to dismiss anything out of hand. That’s how you made mistakes, how you got tripped up, caught out. Besides, if Tracy felt she needed to tell him all this, it wouldn’t just be because she wanted to indulge in their shared love of idle gossip. He turned back to the mixing bowl, cradling it to his chest as he got to work.</p><p>“Well, be that as it may, I do wonder why you’ve decided to choose this moment to tell me?”</p><p>“I— look, I’m not certain, but you know me, you know my experience with these matters. Seen it a million times, and I just think that, if you look at all the evidence, you’ll get where I’m coming from, love, because I don’t want you to panic or anything, but. Well. I really think, there might be a chance, I mean—”</p><p>“Any day now, Tracy, would be wonderful.”</p><p>“I think he might be Crowley’s bit on the side!” Tracy hissed suddenly, throwing her arms up. Aziraphale dropped the bowl, and watched stupidly as it shattered all around his feet, coating his suede shoes in the half-whipped cream. <em> Those peaks are pitiful, hardly stiff at all, </em>he thought, lifting a foot tentatively. Crowley came bounding into the kitchen two seconds later.</p><p>“Aziraphale, what’s happened, I heard—” </p><p>Tracy was there to meet him, pushing him back out immediately.</p><p>“All fine here, nothing to worry about, just me being a butterfingers! Go take care of your guests, I’ve got this, don’t fret! My mess, I’ll sort it!”</p><p>She closed the door behind him, and tutted as she bustled over to the sink, getting a cloth and the dustpan and brush out from underneath.</p><p>“You blimmin’ drama queen. I know it might be hard to hear, but was there any need for that?”</p><p>“It’s not hard to hear,” Aziraphale said, bending over and picking up the biggest shards of glass from around him, “it’s impossible. Just because you suspect your nephew has followed in the family tradition of joining the world’s oldest profession does <em> not </em>mean that he’s schtupping my husband.”</p><p>“You don’t think there’s been anything weird about the way they’ve been behaving around each other all night? They disappeared into the wine cellar together the second they arrived, Newt looks like he’s about to be sick any time he so much looks at Mister C, and I know your hubby loves to natter but he’s been relentless this evening, Aziraphale. All those stories about your perfectly ordinary, normal, happy life together. Methinks the lady doth bang on too much.”</p><p>“Whether or not Newton is a sex worker is none of my business, if that is his chosen career path then you of all people know I support that entirely, but Tracy. Really. <em>Crowley.</em> My Crowley, paying <em> him? </em> For sex?” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh too much. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock, it really was <em> very </em> funny. “I know what my husband likes, surprisingly enough, and it isn’t gawky, twenty-something year old twinks.”</p><p>Tracy harrumphed, but must have seen his point of view because she worked silently for a little while to help him clear away the cream-and-glass debris surrounding him. Once he was a free agent once more, she took his hands in hers.</p><p>“I’m not saying that’s what’s happening here for sure, but something <em> is </em> going on,” Tracy said, squeezing his fingers a little between hers, “and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Sometimes we can love someone so much it becomes difficult to see anything past that.”</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, squeezing back.</p><p>“We both know that, of the two of us, I’m the one with something to hide.”</p><p>Tracy pressed their joined hands to her chest, patting the back of one consolingly. “Even more reason to keep an eye out, love. So busy worrying about what you’re protecting him from, you might forget to protect yourself.”</p><p>They stood like that for a few moments more, and Aziraphale was overwhelmingly grateful for her friendship, and patience, and that she hired him to kill her absolute beast of a husband all those years ago. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Have you <em> completely </em> lost your mind, Aziraphale?”</p><p>“I assure you, I’ve never had more clarity of vision than I do at this exact moment.”</p><p>“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you! After all these years, and you think that—”</p><p>“I don’t think, I <em> know!” </em></p><p>Okay, so this wasn’t exactly the way Crowley had envisioned the evening going. He’d thought that, after the dessert disaster, they’d retire to the lounge and then their guests would excuse themselves and that would be that. So maybe he’d let himself have a second drink, then a third, relax a little. </p><p>“You’re wrong.”</p><p>“Am I, Crowley? I have evidence. Tracy will back me up.”</p><p>“No, I won’t, I refuse to get involved in this,” Tracy said, holding her hands up placatingly.</p><p>“That would be a first,” Crowley rolled his eyes, taking another swig of wine. Next to him, Aziraphale scoffed and started frantically scrolling through his phone.</p><p>“I’m telling you, it was— oh, why isn’t it bringing anything up? Look, I don’t need to rely on the Google to prove—”</p><p>“Nobody calls it <em> The Google, </em>angel—”</p><p>“—to prove that I am in the right here. Francis Cortese was on stage that night, not that ghastly fellow with the goatee.”</p><p>“For the last time, Francis Cortese <em> was </em> the ‘ghastly fellow with the goatee’, you’re misremembering. It was the other bloke instead, the clean shaven one, wossisname.”</p><p>Aziraphale levelled him a devastatingly dry look. “Ah yes. Wossisname. My apologies, darling, your powers of recollection vastly dwarf my own and I concede.”</p><p>“Look, it couldn’t have been Cortese. It was in all the papers, after. He had the flu that week. Wossisname was the understudy, trod the boards that night in his place, and you said afterwards that you actually liked him <em> better </em> than Cortese for the role,” Crowley smirked.</p><p>“No, you’re…” Aziraphale trailed off, and then his nose wrinkled the way that it always did when he realised Crowley was in the right but didn’t want to say so aloud. “Well, it hardly matters, I suppose. Let’s drop it. Silly thing to fight about, really— a play from nearly twenty years ago.”</p><p>“Mmm, silly,” Crowley agreed, secretly planning how many days of bragging rights he could get away with here before Aziraphale snapped. A week might be pushing it, but he was nothing if not a man comfortable with pushing his luck. </p><p>“Do they always get like this?” Anathema asked Tracy, over the head of the lightly-snoring form of Shadwell.</p><p>“Don’t answer that!” Crowley said, perhaps a bit too loud judging by the way Shadwell’s eyes suddenly flew open, but still. Pushing his luck was one thing, but letting down his guard was another entirely.</p><p>“They do,” Tracy confirmed, pouring herself another glass of wine. “S’what married life does to you, love.”</p><p>“It’s… sweet,” Anathema said, and seemed surprised to find she might have meant it. “I mean, my parents weren’t even married for five years before they threw in the towel. I can’t imagine being with someone for twenty years and still being so— I don’t know, excited around them, I guess.”</p><p>Crowley couldn’t help but notice Newt looked a little crestfallen at the admission, poor sod, but he was probably right to. Anathema Device’s motives were still a mystery to Crowley, but apart from a few direct and blunt questions over the dinner table that he’d carefully fielded, she'd been nothing short of <em> charming </em>company and Aziraphale seemed fairly taken with her. She was an oddbod-in-arms, nattering on to him about all his old books, asking him for a copy of the recipe he’d made for dinner that night, going on an impassioned rant about whales for some reason. Crowley actually could see himself sort of liking her, if she stuck around. What he couldn’t see—beyond shady, spy-related reasons—was why the hell she would. </p><p>“Gosh, imagine, twenty years of marriage!” Aziraphale laughed, his arm wrapping around Crowley’s waist— a brazen display that he only ever indulged in when there was company if he was fairly sloshed. “No, it’s only been… what, six? No, no, <em> seven </em>years this October.”</p><p>“Oh,” Anathema said, grimacing. “Of course, you had to wait because of the— the stupid laws. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up something that must be painful.”</p><p>“Oh dear girl, no! Not at all! You’re misunderstanding me, Crowley and I have only been together for eight years now. Six of them very happily married,” Aziraphale said, pinching Crowley’s side.</p><p>Anathema frowned.</p><p>“But then, the play? Were you just friends?”</p><p>“We weren’t there together,” Crowley said, revelling in the further confusion the admission put on Anathema’s face. “Didn’t even know each other. Aziraphale likes to make out as though he came into my life and cultured me, like I’m his own personal production of <em> Pygmalion</em><em>,</em> but one of the reasons we first clicked when we <em> did </em> eventually meet was because we already had the same sort of taste in things like theatre. Didn’t realise we’d both seen this particular play on the exact same night until, I wanna say, maybe three years into being married?”</p><p>“And it’s lucky we saw it when we did, because it was shut down the next day,” Aziraphale said, a look of potent remorse crossing his face. “They’ve never performed it again, which is a terrible shame if you ask me.”</p><p>“How come?” Anathema asked.</p><p>“One of the lead actors died, right there on stage, during the final bows. Everyone suspected foul play, but nobody could prove anything, and considering actors are a dreadfully superstitious lot it gained something of a reputation overnight.”</p><p>Crowley hummed, trying not to let himself tense up while Aziraphale was holding him so close. Even all these years later, he was still sore about that one. It was meant to have been his kill but someone else got there first. Yeah, he’d gotten a decent night of theatre out of the experience, but he was meant to have gotten an even <em> more </em> decent pay cheque out of it. There’d been a string of jobs like that, around the same time, where he’d rocked up to do his thing and found the target already with a knife in their back, or their throat slit, or a throwing knife lodged in their skull. Crowley had been about to go to Head Office about the whole thing when one of his other jobs had gone spectacularly tits up, and he’d had to get out of the field very, very quickly.</p><p>“Wait, I’ve read something about that,” Newt, who had been sticking to Crowley’s plan for the most part and staying silent but who had definitely had more wine than he should have at this point, spoke up, “in the old reports— uh, the papers, I mean. Reports in the papers. They never caught the guy who did it, but they had a name for him, like. Like how they have with serial killers, you know? I think they called him the—”</p><p>Aziraphale cut him off with a yawn so loud and so over-exaggerated Crowley was surprised a laugh track didn’t spontaneously start playing in the background. Newt didn’t look upset at being interrupted— he looked, oddly, terrified. Crowley shot him a look and Newt shook his head, pursing his lips together tightly. All for the best, really. Crowley would have probably needed to shut him up himself if he’d gone on a bit more. There was stuff they’d know about that case from work that nobody would buy had been in the papers, and Anathema had started to get that look on her face again that promised she knew more than she was letting on.</p><p>“Past your bedtime, old man?” Tracy laughed at Aziraphale from across the room.</p><p>“Oh, hush, you wretched harpy, you’ve a decade on me and don’t you forget it,” Aziraphale snorted, cracking his back.</p><p>“She’s right, you know. You<em> are </em>an old man,” Crowley murmured softly, nudging his nose against Aziraphale’s temple.</p><p>“I’ve been reliably informed it takes one to know one, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, resting his hand on Crowley’s knee and starting to rub a maddening little circle with his thumb against the inseam of his suit trousers, which promised Crowley very good things in the not-too-distant future. </p><p>“Right, I’ll start to clear this away, shall I?” Crowley asked, hopping to his feet and grabbing the empty bottles, of which there were considerably more than he’d anticipated. Tracy started poking at her husband to see if he was awake and sober enough to drive them all home again, clearly getting the hint that everyone needed to clear off and soon. Crowley wandered into the hall, already confident he’d be calling a cab for their lingering guests, but stopped short when he heard Anathema clear her throat. Had she just been waiting for an opportunity, for him to get out the way so she could make her move?</p><p>“Look, Aziraphale, I hope it’s alright to ask this but it’s been bugging me all night— why <em>do</em> you call your husband by his last name? Is it some cultural British thing I’m not getting, or what?”</p><p>Of all the things he’d been expecting her to ask, Crowley hadn’t anticipated that. He swallowed and pressed himself against the wall, cradling the bottles to his chest as he waited with the rest of them to hear how Aziraphale would answer.</p><p>“Ah, yes, I can see why that might look a little unusual from the outside,” he heard Aziraphale say, and could picture the ridiculous expression on his face perfectly. “I don’t mind that you asked, Anathema, no. Perfectly normal thing to wonder about. He introduced himself as Crowley, you see, when we first met. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary, to call a casual acquaintance by their surname. We both came from environments where that sort of thing was the norm, I suppose.</p><p>“As we grew closer, I made the switch to Anthony of my own volition. As a sort of show of how far we’d come. I thought it made it clear that we were special to one another— it felt like a privilege, and one I happily took advantage of for the first year or so of our marriage. But one night we were lying in bed together and he asked, apropos of nothing, if I would go back to calling him Crowley. Just came right out with it. He sounded so…”</p><p><em> Pathetic, </em> Crowley thought as Aziraphale trailed off, <em> I was pathetic and miserable. </em></p><p>“Tired,” Aziraphale finished, “like he’d been holding that in the entire time we’d been together and he finally couldn’t help but let it out. Like the last fragments of whatever defences he’d shored up on the subject had been worn away.”</p><p>“You never wanted to know why?” Anathema said, though her voice was much softer than it had been at the start of this line of questioning.</p><p>“I made an attempt to ask,” Aziraphale hummed, “I reached for him, started to say,<em> ‘Anthony, what’s the matter'</em><em>,</em> but as soon as that name crossed my lips, he flinched away from me. I’ve done a fair few things I’m not proud of in my time, but I’d <em> never </em> felt so— oh, goodness, listen to me! Apologies, it seems I’ve reached the maudlin and overbearing stage of being in my cups. Why don’t I go make everyone a coffee, hm? Perk us up a bit before you have to make your way home, won’t be a mo.”</p><p>Crowley was too slow to move out of the way as Aziraphale came bustling into the hallway, and they near collided.</p><p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, hand over his heart as he recovered from the shock Crowley must have given him. “Lord, have you been out here this whole time? Leaving me in there to make a fool of myself alone is <em> not </em> very sporting. Isn’t the point of being married that we do this sort of thing together?”</p><p>Crowley resolutely ignored the lump in his throat and leant in, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s.</p><p>“I’ll make sure to rescue you next time, angel. Promise.”</p><p>“See that you do, you old sap,” Aziraphale tutted, kissing the corner of Crowley’s mouth.</p><p>“I love you,” Crowley said, because Aziraphale deserved to hear it in that moment; because he hadn’t asked why, back then, and hadn’t ever asked again. Because it was true.</p><p>“Yes, yes, I love you too,” Aziraphale smiled. “Now come on, come help me in the kitchen so we can finally get this lot to <em> bugger off, </em> I’m absolutely shattered.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They hadn’t been in bed five minutes when Crowley’s phone buzzed.</p><p>“Turn that off,” Aziraphale groused, burying his face more firmly into the back of Crowley’s neck.</p><p>“S’work,” Crowley said, scanning the contents of the email quickly.</p><p>“At this hour, on a Saturday night?”</p><p>“See, there are these amazing things called <em> time zones </em> <em>—</em> ow! Was that your <em> pillow? </em> What are you <em> sleeping on, </em> Aziraphale, a slab of marble?!”</p><p>“Oh, sorry, darling, I forget how heavy the Tempur ones are,” Aziraphale said, in the tone of a man who hadn’t forgotten how heavy the Tempur ones were at all. “They’re not asking you to go in tomorrow, are they?”</p><p>“Nah, job’s for next weekend. Good money. Can get you those fancy kitchen bayonets you’ve always wanted.”</p><p>“That joke stopped being funny <em> hours </em> ago.”</p><p>“Hmm, let me think. Nope. Definitely still funny.”</p><p>“How did you even <em> know </em> it was a— Good Lord, is that your phone <em> again, </em>Crowley?”</p><p>“S’you this time.”</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley and sat up, putting his bedside light on and fishing for his glasses, ignoring his husband’s protests of <em> “you do know the screen lights up on its own in a way that doesn’t completely blind everyone in the room?”  </em></p><p>“Ah, seems I’ll also be out of town next weekend. I’ve been invited to display some of my collection at a bookselling conference, and apparently there’s an interested buyer.”</p><p>“Y’won’t sell,” Crowley mumbled confidently.</p><p>“Not unless the price is right, no,” Aziraphale turned off the light and wriggled back into his previous position of big spoon. “But I have been thinking we should go on a little holiday soon, so it <em> would </em> be nice to have some pocket money.”</p><p>When a man with the income and resources of Aziraphale said <em> pocket money </em> <em>,</em> he could mean anything from a couple of hundred to a couple of hundred <em> thousand </em> pounds.</p><p>“Funny, that. I was thinking a holiday, too.”</p><p>“Oh, really? Anywhere in particular?”</p><p>“Dunno. Have to see how this job goes, but... America, maybe?”</p><p>“How odd. I was <em> just </em>thinking of America.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>TO:</strong> ajc_consultant@seventhcyclesolutions.org</p>
  <p><strong>FROM:</strong> UNKNOWN SENDER<br/><strong>Subject:</strong> Next Deadline - Don’t Forget To Hit Your Targets!</p>
  <p>[Today, 23:10]</p>
  <p>Thaddeus Dowling<br/>American Ambassador’s Residence<br/>1.5mil</p>
  <p>results expected by 3PM, sat</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>TO:</strong> azfell_research@ninefold.gov.uk</p>
  <p><strong>FROM:</strong> UNKNOWN SENDER<br/><strong>Subject:</strong> Your Attendance Is Requested at the American Book Fair</p>
  <p>[Today, 11:13PM]</p>
  <p>Thaddeus Dowling<br/>£1,500,000<br/>Please see address attached</p>
  <p>Offer closes at 15:00 on Saturday</p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it's midnight cereal killers time baybeeeeeeeee. the cereal killers thing is just something i'm trying out, fun little nickname. do assassins/hitmen count as serial killers? i think elementary taught me that they don't but also i'm almost thirty and my brain can't retain facts anymore. answers on a postcard.</p><p>massive thank yous this week again to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackaley">rachel</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsnoggin">nogz</a> who step up to the plate when i yell that i want attention</p><p>an <i>extra special cherry-on-top</i> thank you to my beloved pal and vibe checker <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92">indie</a> who had to teach me how sentences work this week. this is not a joke. i owe them my life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Assignment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley and Aziraphale have issues at work.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley’s trousers were too tight.</p>
<p>He’d heard this sometimes-complaint, sometimes-compliment from Aziraphale many times over in his life, but he’d never really considered it an issue until this moment. Crowley’s trousers were too tight, and it was making it hard for him to keep his gun in place, undetected, as he attempted to blend in with the rest of the waitstaff at the American Ambassador’s residence. It didn’t help that the jacket he’d swiped from the catering company was a bit too small on him, either. Rookie errors, ones he was sure he wouldn’t have made five, ten years ago. Normally he got Newt to sort these sorts of things out but the kid had been absent from work since the dinner party for some reason— maybe Anathema had broken up with him and he was nursing a broken heart, or maybe he was terrified that Crowley actually <em> would </em> kill him now that he’d seen his home and met Aziraphale. Whatever the reason, Crowley was without the usual annoying buzz of Newt in his ear today. Currently he was hiding out in the kitchen which was, in his opinion, the best place to do a bit of recon before getting on with things. Make friends with the chefs, learn the household gossip and buy himself some time to think up a solution to the gun issue.</p>
<p>The problem was—as the problem had increasingly been recently—his mind wasn’t on the job.</p>
<p>The row hadn’t been his fault, he was sure of it. Definitely wasn’t to blame for this one. The last one, yeah, that was probably all him and he’d been the bigger man and admitted it at the time, but this one was all Aziraphale.</p>
<p><em> “Christ,”</em> muttered one of the chefs as he came back into the kitchen, starting to chop furiously away at some salmon to Crowley’s right. “They’ve hired a magician for the party. Just saw him meeting Mrs. D at the front door.”</p>
<p>“Seriously? For an <em> eleven year old’s </em> birthday?” Crowley asked.</p>
<p>The chef nodded miserably. </p>
<p>“Christ,” Crowley agreed. Well, at least a dead dad wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to the kid today. For half a second Crowley felt a tiny bit guilty that Aziraphale would be missing out—because if there was one thing Aziraphale inexplicably loved it was the tragic “art” of stage magic—but then remembered that a) he was mad at his husband and b) there was absolutely no reason for him to be here, at all, in the first place. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I thought we’d booked a silent disco,” Harriet Dowling said.</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, the disc jockey was indisposed, and the company has sent me in their stead,” Aziraphale smiled, bowing and dipping his top hat to her. </p>
<p>“Perfect, what <em> else </em> can go wrong today,” Mrs. Dowling sighed. "Okay, you can set up in the gazebo, we’ll put you on after the cake— oh, you don’t have anything dangerous in your act, do you? My son is going through his <em> look mom aren’t weapons so cool </em>phase, and keeps managing to get his hands on whatever can do the most damage in the room the second I turn my back.”</p>
<p>“Dangerous?” Aziraphale paused, thinking about the assortment of dart guns, blades and—as a last resort—the length of cheese wire he had secreted about his person. “I assure you, madam, I do not go in for the sort of gory, <em> shock-jock </em> magic that has plagued the discipline over recent years. Oh, I do have—” he reached into his trunk and produced a saw, “—this, however?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Dowling grimaced, eyes running down the length of it as it wobbled in the air between them.</p>
<p>“It’s fake though, right?”</p>
<p>“A magician never tells,” Aziraphale’s smile turned brittle as he tapped the side of his nose.</p>
<p>“Well this magician is gonna tell, because if not he’ll find himself and his little trunk of tricks getting escorted off the premises by security.”</p>
<p>“... it may not be, ah, as <em> sharp </em> as a regular saw, no, but I—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay, sure. I’ll get someone to come let you know when it’s your turn to go on,” Mrs. Dowling said, and left— presumably to find some other member of the myriad assembled staff to be incredibly rude to. Aziraphale allowed himself a moment to direct several uncharitable thoughts toward her back, before attempting to calm down. He was grouchy because of that morning, that was all, and it wasn’t fair to take it out on Mrs. Dowling who—rather shortly—was about to become a widow. <em> If only we were all so lucky, </em>Aziraphale thought, then winced. A touch too far, perhaps, but Crowley really had tried his patience.</p>
<p>Aziraphale gave himself a few little slaps to the cheeks, to focus his mind. He was much more professional than this. He knew better than to bring problems from one’s home sphere into the workplace— that was just asking for trouble.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean, am I being unreasonable here?” Crowley asked, watching as the birthday boy took a worryingly vicious swing at the dinosaur-shaped piñata.</p>
<p>“Do you really want me to answer that?” Ranjit said, treating both their surroundings and the conversation with the standard bored air of a minimum-wage service worker.</p>
<p>“No, course I’m not. He’s the unreasonable one, always has been,” Crowley sniffed, checking his watch. Quarter past one. Thaddeus Dowling had not yet put in an appearance at his son’s birthday party, which was starting to concern him a bit, but there was still time to kill before— well. </p>
<p>“So your boyfriend—”</p>
<p>“Husband.”</p>
<p>“—husband asked you about retirement, and you got mad... why? If I was still working this job in my fifties, I think my girlfriend would want me to consider my life choices too, and I wouldn’t blame her. S’like, did you see the magician they’ve hired? He’s <em> old </em>old, it’s embarrassing, man.”</p>
<p>“It’s the way he does it, thinks he’s so sneaky. Subtlety of a— a— I don’t know, something <em> incredibly unsubtle. </em> Sidling up to me, flutter of the eyelashes, <em> oh darling aren’t you tired, wouldn’t you like to be at home more often, </em> as if it’s some great big favour to <em> me </em> that he’s essentially asking me to give up work.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean, <em> I </em> can’t be expected to give up work,” Aziraphale said, angrily pulling the remaining handkerchiefs out from his sleeve. “I’m pursuing my lifelong passion!”</p>
<p>“Being… a party magician?” </p>
<p>“He’s always done this, always belittled what I do, always acted as though it was somehow <em> frivolous, </em> making little jibes and jests about how I can’t possibly have a head for business— like his career is any more sensible!” Aziraphale snorted. “I don’t even completely understand what it is that he does! Every time he explains it to me it just— poof! Into one ear and out the other. Something to do with numbers and worldwide accounts and money, Lord, it’s all terribly boring. Pass me another towel, would you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah but, that sounds like he actually <em> makes </em> money. Like, money his party magician husband can comfortably retire on, right?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at the young woman who had been sent to help him clean himself off in the entertainment tent post-cake throwing. His act had not gone down well, and he was sore about it for several reasons. Crowley was to blame, that much he knew. He wouldn’t have fumbled that coin if Crowley hadn’t made such a stink about money that morning, and if he hadn’t fumbled the coin the young man turning eleven most likely wouldn’t have thrown the first handful of buttercream, and now here was this chatty Cathy, acting as though she knew a <em> single </em> thing about him. </p>
<p>“Have you ever been a party magician?”</p>
<p>“No, but—”</p>
<p>“Well then you have <em> no idea </em> how much we make and, frankly, neither does my husband.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“So it’s a communication problem,” Lynda said, loading up Crowley’s tray with canapés. The Ambassador’s wife had asked him to help clean up the entertainment, something to do with a cake-based incident, and so Crowley had told her he’d get right on it and then escaped into the kitchens instead. He didn’t do <em> mess</em>.</p>
<p>“I’m not following, what do you mean?” Crowley asked.</p>
<p>Lynda rolled her eyes. “Course you don’t. What did the fight start about?”</p>
<p>Crowley sucked on his teeth, thinking back to breakfast.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, something stupid about wanting to redo the backsplash in the kitchen. He’s never been keen on it, I think it’s a waste of money.”</p>
<p>“And where did that lead you?”</p>
<p>“Which of us spends most time in the kitchen and so has to <em> look </em>at the backsplash, then a few detours around stuff in the house we’ve not had a chance to get to yet because we’ve both been busy recently, and then money in general, and—”</p>
<p>“And then your husband brought up retirement, got it,” Lynda said. “Which pissed you off because—”</p>
<p>“Because he doesn’t <em> appreciate—” </em></p>
<p>Lynda held a finger up, and Crowley was shocked into silence.</p>
<p>“Be<em>cause </em> you’ve not been honest with him. Fights like that, fights that snowball? It’s never just about one thing or the other. It’s all of them, all at once, and really? It’s about all the things you’re not saying. You’re not communicating properly because you’re holding something back. Both of you, from the sound of it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well,” Aziraphale said, trying not to sound like he thought Jim had a point, “one can’t always tell their spouse everything, no? Surely there must be <em> some </em>secrets that are fine to keep.”</p>
<p>Jim shrugged, leaning on his rake. Aziraphale took a moment to check his pocket watch— nearly ten to three, this was certainly cutting it fine even for someone with his considerable skill set.</p>
<p>“There are secrets, and then there are <em> secrets</em>. Take her, for instance—” Jim said, pausing to gesture at his employer, “—poor woman’s been telling everyone her husband’s just stuck in a meeting, he’ll be here in a minute, traffic’s a nightmare et cetera all day. Not true though, is it? He’s not coming. Never was coming. Been in America all month, word is nobody’s sure when he’ll be back in England. She’s certainly got no clue.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s dreadful,” Aziraphale tutted, frowning at Mrs. Dowling. No wonder she’d been in such a foul mood earlier. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be, really puts things into perspective for— sorry, my dear fellow, did you just say Ambassador Dowling <em>isn’t here?”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you like your job?”</p>
<p>Crowley blinked.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Your job. You like it?”</p>
<p>This was the rub, really. Crowley liked that he was good at his job. Crowley liked that he could take pride in being good at his job. Crowley liked getting to explore the world, even if he was exploring it in order to off some of its inhabitants. Crowley liked that he could make a hell of a lot of money doing his job, and he liked that he could use that money to buy ridiculous, expensive things for Aziraphale at the drop of a hat. Liking the job <em> itself,</em> though? </p>
<p>“Never really thought about it. Why?”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe that’s what your husband was driving at, you know. Why do something if you don’t<em> love </em>it?” The Secret Service agent asked. “Me, for instance, I love my job. Takes a lot out of me, demands a lot of my time—” he held up a hand, showing off his ring-less finger with a slight tell-tale patch of lighter skin around the base, “—and I’ve made the sacrifices necessary.”</p>
<p>Crowley frowned, running his thumb along the underside of his wedding band.</p>
<p>“Now take Dowling,” the agent continued. “The guy's married to his job from day one, without a thought to spare for his smokin’ hot wife. She thinks he’s in America right now cause he’s got a mistress, but his only mistress is—”</p>
<p>“Dowling’s in <em> America?” </em>Crowley interrupted, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time and watching in horror as the minute display went from 59 to 00.</p>
<p>3PM. Deadline.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>TO: </strong> <a href="mailto:ajc_consultant@seventhcyclesolutions.org"> ajc_consultant@seventhcyclesolutions.org </a></p>
  <p><strong>FROM:</strong> UNKNOWN SENDER<br/><strong>Subject:</strong> Reassignment</p>
  <p>[Today, 15:00]</p>
  <p>Ignore prior instructions</p>
  <p>Target: Warlock Dowling<br/>2.5mil</p>
  <p>we have received word an enemy agent is working same job w/instructions to protect Dowling, is aware of your involvement, take out enemy agent for bonus pay (negotiated on delivery)</p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>TO: </strong> <a href="mailto:azfell_research@ninefold.gov.uk"> azfell_research@ninefold.gov.uk </a></p>
  <p><strong>From:</strong> UNKNOWN SENDER<br/><strong>Subject:</strong> Change of plans!</p>
  <p>[Today, 3:00PM]</p>
  <p>Disregard previous communique<br/><br/>Target: Warlock Dowling<br/>£2,500,000</p>
  <p>According to intel there is a rogue agent at your location who has been instructed to prevent the job from going ahead, and is in possession of knowledge regarding your presence. Disposal of rogue agent TOP PRIORITY (usual commission rates apply)</p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The kid?</p>
<p>
  <em> The kid? </em>
</p>
<p>Crowley just kept staring down at his phone, wondering if he was having some sort of very localised stroke, and that was why his brain was translating the words in front of him to read <em> Warlock Dowling</em>. He knew there were signs that you were supposed to look for, but he was too busy looking at the words <em> Warlock Dowling </em>to remember. Was someone who was in the middle of having a stroke in any sort of position to know they were having a stroke? Didn't matter, he wasn't having a stroke and, personally, he wasn't up for killing kids.</p>
<p><em> Okay, don’t think about that part right now, </em> Crowley told himself, tucking his phone away in his pocket, <em> think about the other thing. Someone’s here to kill you, and you need to kill them first. Then think about the other thing. The kid thing. You’re going to have to kill a kid! Which is exactly why you got out of the— No, stop it, it won’t matter whether or not you have it in you to kill a kid if you get yourself killed first. </em></p>
<p>There was someone, somewhere, at this party who didn’t belong. Other than him, he meant. Someone making clever moves and hiding themselves in plain sight, just like he was. Or... maybe not <em>just</em> like he was. Crowley winced as he mentally ran through the list of all the temporary staff he'd chatted with today. If he was going easy on himself, probably about 60% of those counted as ‘hiding in plain sight’, but the statistics on ‘clever moves’ were a bit depressing to consider. Would have been helpful, really, if he’d been talking to them for the purposes of getting information, but of course he hadn’t been doing that. Course not, that would have been <em> professional </em> of him. No, Crowley had to go and spend his day getting free marriage counselling instead of doing his bastard job. Maybe Aziraphale was right. Maybe he did need to think about retiring, because this sloppy kind of work might just be the death of him.</p>
<p>“Shit, shit, shit, shit, <em> shit,” </em> Crowley hissed, ducking into the nearest approximation of cover he could find in order to catch his breath and formulate a plan. He sat down heavily on a handy stack of boxes and ran his hands down his face, gazing despondently at a familiar white rabbit that also seemed to be taking a break from the chaos in the relative sanctuary of the otherwise-vacant gazebo. Should he call Newt? He should check, make sure that— that he wasn’t—</p>
<p>“Harry?” Crowley found himself saying aloud, staring harder into the eyes of the rabbit. “Is that you?”</p>
<p>Harry the Rabbit didn’t respond, because Harry the Rabbit was, well, a <em> rabbit </em> and Crowley was clearly losing it, because there was no earthly way that this could be Harry the Rabbit, because Harry the Rabbit belonged to…</p>
<p>Crowley liked knowing things. He liked learning new information. He especially liked learning new information he could use to his advantage. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but generally it gave the Crowley a lot of personal satisfaction. Crowley knew if he just stood up, he wouldn’t have to speculate. He wouldn’t have to rely on a rabbit to confirm his worst fears, which he hadn’t even known were his worst fears until about, oh, say, two and a half minutes ago.</p>
<p>He stayed sitting. He didn’t want to stand up. He told himself he didn’t <em> want </em>to know, but the truth of it was he already knew.</p>
<p>Was this why? Why he’d been so bloody stubborn that morning, all that talk about retirement? At the time, Crowley thought it had come out of nowhere. It was why it had thrown him so much, why he’d reacted like that. Perfectly normal breakfast, only two cups of coffee in, a kiss on the cheek from his husband and <em> oh yes Crowley I know I’ve literally never mentioned this before but what if you gave up your career immediately. </em>Had Aziraphale been trying to protect him somehow? Maybe there was something they could still salvage here, if that was the case. Maybe—</p>
<p>A gunshot rang out in the direction Crowley had just come from.</p>
<p>Crowley leapt to his feet, reached for his own weapon, but came away empty-handed. Where there should have been a gun haphazardly stuffed down the back of his very-tight trousers, there was a somewhat worrying lack of gun.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <a href="https://jb612.tumblr.com">  </a>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The moment the email had arrived, Aziraphale had disappeared around the side of the house, ostensibly to take a cigarette break with the rest of the staff currently enjoying the benefits of a good nicotine hit, but really he needed to get out of sight and take some time to gather himself. And to see if there was a vehicle he could hot-wire to get himself out of there if things became a little dicey.</p>
<p>How had he not noticed a rogue agent skulking about the place? They were normally so easy to spot, complete caricatures of themselves. Flash, smug, full of their own importance— Aziraphale had caught and killed dozens of them from fifty paces. Perhaps he had allowed himself to become a little distracted from the task at hand today, but the organisation had never indicated to him this was anything other than a simple job taking out a disgraced politician for the good of the nation! Killing a <em> child, </em> however, well… he knew, of course, that the organisation had done some questionable things in the past. Aziraphale had just never been tasked with those sorts of jobs <em> personally. </em> He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was, examining whether or not he’d be willing to go through with it. Perhaps if they’d provided a touch more information, laid out their reasoning for switching from the father to the son, he wouldn’t have such a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach.</p>
<p>The rogue, then. An easy decision. Killing the rogue would clear his head and let him focus on the task at hand. But first—</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” Aziraphale hurried over to a few of the staff, who he deduced were all under the influence of some particularly strong hash and therefore—even <em> if </em> one of them turned out to be an assassin sent to wring the life out of his body, which Aziraphale highly doubted—they were not much a threat. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could bum a tab?”</p>
<p>“Ranjit,” one of them nudged his friend, “Mr. Magician wants a smoke.”</p>
<p>The gentleman who Aziraphale presumed was Ranjit produced a pack of squashed fags from his back pocket, and Aziraphale gratefully took one and the proffered light. He leant against the side of the catering van, letting the rush of smoke fill his lungs and calm his nerves. He was going to be alright, he reasoned with himself, looking out over the rows of parked cars. <em> You’re going to get through this, </em> Aziraphale told himself firmly, smiling as his eyes fell on the familiar sight of the Bentley, <em> and then you’re going to go home and apologise to Crowley for— </em></p>
<p>The cigarette fell to the floor.</p>
<p>Anyone could have that car, he told himself immediately. Anyone here, with the sort of money and connections that come from knowing an Ambassador, could have that car. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a Bentley. Plenty of people drove them. </p>
<p>Aziraphale took a few staggered steps forward, and each felt as though he were battling his way through fresh cement. Was this why Crowley had been so adamant he give up work that morning? Had he already known that— <em> No, you don’t know yet, you don’t know that it’s him, </em> Aziraphale thought, but as well-practiced as he was in the art of lying to himself, even he knew it sounded shockingly flimsy. The Bentley was within touching distance now, and Aziraphale knew, if he just walked around the bonnet and had a quick peek at the driver’s side window all of his questions would be answered. There may have been many people in attendance with the money to splurge on the upkeep of a classic car such as the Bentley<em>—the sort of money that killing people for a living provides one with! </em> Aziraphale’s brain supplied unhelpfully—but there couldn’t be more than one man in the whole of London who was adamant that adding vinyl bullet hole stickers to the window of said classic car would <em> increase </em> the value, he just had to look and he’d <em> know—</em></p>
<p>Aziraphale was distracted from his search for fake bullet holes by the sound of a very real gunshot. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“This is a stick up!” Warlock Dowling yelled, firing off another slug that, like the first, lodged itself into the nearest tree before George was able to grab him.</p>
<p>“Get everyone inside,” George spoke into his earpiece, wrestling the gun out of the kid’s hands and handing him off to another agent who bustled him towards the shelter of the house, where the rest of the assembled guests had started to flee the second the Ambassador’s son had pulled the trigger. </p>
<p>“Whose piece is it?” another voice—Johnson’s, from the sound of it—crackled through the line. </p>
<p>George was proud of his team, the guys did good work, but some of them were complete meatheads. Whoever had let a kid get close enough to swipe their gun was in for a world of trouble. </p>
<p>“Yeah, looks like, uh—”</p>
<p>He balked, looking down at the gun in his hands in disbelief.</p>
<p>“Boss? Do you copy?”</p>
<p>George couldn’t say it. He knew whose gun this was, but couldn’t say it, because it was <em> ridiculous</em>.</p>
<p>“Cause we’re all present and accounted for, so—”</p>
<p>He’d recognise it anywhere. He’d grown up pretending every stick, every NERF gun, every Super Soaker was what he was holding in his hands right now. This gun was why he’d applied for the position in the household he was in. Why he’d been happy to leave his wife, leave his country, and serve on foreign soil.</p>
<p>“Sweep the perimeter,” George grunted, holding the gun aloft and trying not to feel <em>too </em>happy about it as he started to head for the entertainment tent, “and make sure everyone’s inside. We may have a situation here.”</p>
<p>George was holding a Walther PPK. It didn’t belong to any of his men, and it definitely didn’t belong to anyone who should have been present at the trigger-happy kid’s birthday party.</p>
<p>It belonged to James Bond.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Considering his line of work, Crowley had never given much thought to how he was going to die.</p>
<p>He<em> thought </em> about it, sure, in the way that anyone with a somewhat anxious and philosophical disposition towards life thought about it. Lying awake in the middle of the night, his husband snoring softly next to him, turning the thought over and over in his mind: <em> one day, I’ll die.</em> He knew it was an immutable fact of the universe and so tried not to look too closely at it, because otherwise he’d just ask questions about it round and round in circles until he drove himself—and Aziraphale too, probably—mad with it. So yes, Crowley knew he’d die one day, he’d just never given much thought as to how. </p>
<p>If he had, though, even with all the power of his impressive imagination, Crowley would never have guessed in a million years it would be at a kid’s birthday party.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to ask you again, sir!” The agent who he’d been chatting to by the piñata now stood at the entrance to the gazebo pointing Crowley’s own gun at him and yelling. “Identify yourself, show me your hands, and get down on the ground!”</p>
<p>“In that order, or?” Crowley asked, eyes darting around the tent for something, <em> anything </em> he could use to get himself out of this situation.</p>
<p>“I will shoot you in the goddamn face if you even think about making a move. Count of five to comply, consider yourself warned.”</p>
<p>Crowley frowned down at Harry, who was being absolutely no help at all in this situation.</p>
<p>“Five.”</p>
<p>Could he just tackle the guy? It had been a while since he had to <em> physically engage </em> a target, and most of his targets were not trained CIA agents or whatever stupid government branch this cowboy worked for. Crowley, despite numerous emails reminding him he was overdue for a refresher course, had not kept up with his hand-to-hand combat training. Just always seemed pointless when he handled his targets from afar. All that grunting and sweating and, yeah, no. The only wrestling he enjoyed was the kind that ended with Aziraphale pinning him to the bed.</p>
<p>“Four.”</p>
<p>God, that was a thought, <em> Aziraphale</em>. Crowley couldn’t let himself die here, Aziraphale would be— actually, given all that he’d learned today, Aziraphale would probably be chuffed to bits. A neat solution to his problem, wouldn’t have to get his own hands dirty offing Crowley himself. He couldn’t help but be a bit curious about it all, wondering exactly how a fussy old thing like Aziraphale took out his targets. Judging by the open box of tricks Crowley had been sitting next to, maybe he shoved colourful knotted hankies down their throat until they choked on it, or stuck a wand through their eye, or sawed them in half, or—</p>
<p>“Three.”</p>
<p>The saw. Could he grab it in time? Would it do any good? </p>
<p>What did he have left to lose?</p>
<p>“Two. Last chance, man, I’m serious. Get down on— HEY!”</p>
<p>Crowley had lunged for the saw, his fingers within touching distance of the handle when he tripped. The first shot whizzed over his head as he landed with a hard <em> oof </em> on the grass, narrowly missing Harry. The agent yelled again and Crowley sighed, shutting his eyes and letting his thoughts wander to Aziraphale. Not the Aziraphale of today, not this new, strange Aziraphale who apparently killed people for a living, but his Aziraphale. His smile, his hands, his voice. He may not have imagined how he was going to die but he’d known for years now that, whenever it happened, his last thoughts would be of Aziraphale.</p>
<p>There was a heavy thud. He hadn’t even heard the gun go off, but Crowley assumed that had been the bullet entering his body. He was, for a moment, surprised. It hadn’t hurt <em> at all,</em> people usually made such a fuss when he shot them and they didn’t die right away. There was a sudden sharp pain at the tip of his nose and Crowley howled involuntarily—what kind of bastard shoots someone in the nose? It was funny, though, Crowley found himself thinking, how much being shot in the nose felt like being chewed on by a rabbit.</p>
<p>“It’s moments like this that remind me why we sent you to live with Tracy,” he growled, pushing Harry to one side. The agent's body revealed itself as he did, still and lifeless. It might have taken Crowley longer to figure out what happened here but the golden throwing knife sticking out the back of the guy's neck was a pretty strong clue. Whoever had thrown it had done so from very far away with incredible accuracy— it had struck just the right spot to incapacitate the agent, rendering him completely unable to fire a signal from his brain to his trigger finger at the same time as it forced him to the floor. Like cutting the strings on a puppet. And then killing it for good measure. </p>
<p>“This has to mean something, right?” Crowley said to Harry as he pulled the knife out the back of the agent’s neck. It was engraved with a <em>fleur-de-lis</em> pattern. <em> Subtle</em>, Crowley thought, rolling his eyes as he tried to shove his Walther PPK back into his trousers. “I mean,” Crowley went on, “he just saved my life. That has to mean something.”</p>
<p>Maybe he could just head back to the house, sit down with him over a cup of tea, or coffee or <em>whatever,</em> and they could sort this whole thing out. There was no need to involve their respective employers in this. Jobs went south all the time, he’d just report it in as a failure. Crowley had no intention of telling his bosses exactly <em> who </em>the enemy agent had been at the party, or that he’d been living with him in matrimonial bliss for the last seven years. He may have been a murderer-for-hire, Crowley thought as he pulled his pinging phone out of his jacket pocket and opened up his emails, but he wasn’t a bastard. He wouldn’t turn Aziraphale in just because he was meant to. </p>
<p>Clearly, Crowley realised with slow dawning horror as he read through the latest update from his bosses, Aziraphale’s loyalties lay elsewhere.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>TO: </strong> <a href="mailto:ajc_consultant@seventhcyclesolutions.org"> ajc_consultant@seventhcyclesolutions.org </a></p>
  <p><strong>FROM:</strong> UNKNOWN SENDER<br/><strong>Subject:</strong> Re: Reassignment - URGENT UPDATE</p>
  <p>[Today, 15:15]</p>
  <p>Enemy agent alias Principality alias Aziraphale Fell (true name unknown)<br/>Have received intelligence that enemy agent has identified you and reported you to his employer<br/>Photo attached from last known sighting, be on high alert<br/>Target extremely dangerous</p>
  <p>Kill on sight</p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>PLOT! IT IS FINALLY HAPPENING!!!</p>
<p>enjoy the absolutely amazing art of crowley and harry in this chapter by my absolutely gorgeous pal <a href="https://jb612.tumblr.com/">Jeebs</a> who is so talented and deserves lots of love so off you trot to give it to her, ta.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Fight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley and Aziraphale consider becoming widowers.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The house was dark. </p><p>Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he came home from a job to a dark house. The living room window was normally lit up by this time on an evening, with some sad old diva belting her heart out on the gramophone in the corner, loud enough to carry all the way down the street. Aziraphale would be by the front door, having somehow heard the Bentley’s approach over Dusty, or Bessie, or Nina, waiting for him with a kiss and launching into some story or another as if they hadn’t been apart for even a minute. <em> Don’t,</em> Crowley grimaced, chucking his gun into the glovebox, <em> don’t think about that now.  </em></p><p>He casually sloped up the steps to the front door and was unsurprised to find it unlocked. Aziraphale refused to understand that their home, despite being on a nice street in central London, was still on a street in central London. He never remembered to lock it behind him when he was in a rush on his way out. It was funny, Crowley thought, how often he’d tried to impress upon his husband how reckless that was, how there were dangerous people out there. Aziraphale had always said <em> “well, if anyone would care to try it, they’ll have to reckon with me” </em>and Crowley had always laughed at what he thought was this private joke between the two of them. Turns out the joke had been on him all along. He reckoned Aziraphale must’ve fled the scene at the Dowling’s, nipped back here, packed a bag and disappeared. He’d expected as much— hell, he’d even hoped for it, a bit. Meant he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Deal with Aziraphale.</p><p>He had to be sensible about this. The best course of action would be to gather some shit and then follow in Aziraphale’s footsteps. Not literally, of course, but the disappearing part. Drop off the grid for a bit until this all cooled over and he could emerge, a different man, a different Crowley, somewhere else. Maybe Paris, they’d always liked Paris this time of year. Aziraphale said—</p><p><em> Nope, can’t go to Paris, too loaded. </em>Crowley groaned, taking off his sunglasses and scrubbing his hands down his face as he made his way towards the kitchen. Anyway, if he knew his husband at all—and after the events of today he wasn’t entirely convinced he could make that judgement anymore—if Aziraphale had to choose somewhere to start a new life, he’d have first dibs on Paris. In fact, the continent in its entirety was probably a no-go. Crowley didn’t know where he was going to end up, but he knew his first port of call would be Little Alnwick. He’d been growing some pretty rare specimens, things certain collectors would pay through the nose for cuttings from. Would pay the bills for a bit until he got back on his feet, he reasoned with himself as he pushed the kitchen door open, and then—</p><p>Aziraphale was stood at the counter.</p><p>Chopping an onion.</p><p>“What?” Crowley said.</p><p>“Oh, Crowley, you’re home,” said Aziraphale, not looking up from his cutting board. “The fuse has gone at the front of the house, couldn’t get the living room light to come on for love nor money. Could you nip down to the cellar and flip the switch for me?"</p><p>“What… what are we doing here?” Crowley asked, eyes trained on the knife held in his husband’s hands as it diced the unfortunate allium with startling speed and accuracy.</p><p>“Well, I was considering chilli,” Aziraphale hummed, bustling over to the stove and using said knife to scrape the onion into a deep pan, “but I’m not married to the idea. Just thought I’d soften some onions first and then go from there. Suggestions?”</p><p>“Suggest— Aziraphale, I didn’t mean <em> dinner, </em> I mean what— what are we <em> doing </em> here? Or, no, hold that thought, better question, what are you still doing here?” Crowley hissed. He’d remained calm enough until he’d actually seen the man and now he found himself, quite suddenly, furious. A reasonable mood all things considered, and one that wasn’t at all helped by Aziraphale’s answering scoff, or the fact that he hadn’t turned back from the stove yet to face Crowley head-on.</p><p>“I live here, darling, in case you’d forgotten,” he sniffed, using that dismissive, holier-than-thou tone that Crowley <em> loathed.</em> “Now would you please go and sort the fuse box while I crack on with dinner?”</p><p>Crowley blinked, trying to wrap his head around exactly what was going on. He even pulled out his phone to check the email from his superiors was still there, that he hadn’t somehow misread the name <em> John Smith </em> as <em> Aziraphale Fell, </em>but nope. It definitely said Aziraphale. The picture attached, too, was definitely of Aziraphale, albeit a much younger version who apparently wore an earring. Another thing he'd never bothered telling Crowley about.</p><p>“Crowley? The fuse box?”</p><p>“You really think we’re just, what, <em> not </em> going to talk about it?” Crowley said, tucking his phone away.</p><p>“Talk about what?”</p><p>Crowley threw a despairing look up to the ceiling.</p><p>“Don’t do that, don’t pretend like you don’t— you know exactly what I mean, Aziraphale.”</p><p>“No, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to discuss,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley saw the hand closest to him tighten its grip on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. For a moment, Crowley felt himself give. Maybe they could just pretend like nothing had happened. Maybe he could go and sort the fuse box out, and Aziraphale could make chilli. They could eat across the table from each other, go upstairs together and fuck and sleep and do it all again the next day. Carry on like it was all normal. Crowley, being brutally honest with himself, loved him enough to give the idea a minute's consideration. <em> But he doesn’t love you, </em>the thought rose, unbidden, and Crowley was furious all over again. He’d been lied to for far too long. He deserved answers. He deserved the truth.</p><p>“Oh, so you don’t want to talk about the birthday party, hm? No, best not,” Crowley said flippantly, leaning back against the door. “How about we talk about work? Whoops, no, silly me, you probably won’t want to talk about that either. Taxes? Nah. The bookshop? If you even really run the bookshop, I mean, who knows what you actually get up to out there in the world. What about <em> retirement, </em>Aziraphale? Seemed pretty keen to chat about that this morning.”</p><p>“Stop it, Crowley.”</p><p>“Don’t think I will, actually, but you’re right. Retirement’s a bit of a sore subject at the moment, I s’pose, considering we’re discussing it in more <em> permanent </em> terms now. Let’s see, let’s see. What’s something we can talk about, hmm? Ohh, I’ve got a good one,” he smiled, as nasty as he could possibly make it to cover for the fact he was pretty sure his heart had broken clean in two at some point today and he was really only just dealing with the full brunt of in the moment that he said “why don’t we talk about the <em> complete sham </em> that’s been our marriage for the last seven years.”</p><p>“Why don’t we talk about the knife wound in your chest?” Aziraphale countered.</p><p>“The wh—” The split second of confusion meant that the knife didn’t entirely miss Crowley when he finally dived out the way. He felt it slice through the material of his shirt and nick the side of his arm before it wedged itself into the doorframe. Crowley looked from the knife to Aziraphale’s outstretched fingers, still hovering in the air where he’d thrown it from. Aziraphale looked for all the world like he couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. <em> That makes two of us, </em>Crowley thought.</p><p>“Did that knife have onion on it?” Crowley asked, staring at the implement in question, which was wobbling slightly where it had come to rest.</p><p>“Onion’s good for wounds,” Aziraphale said, almost as if on fact-divulging autopilot. “It can help draw out infection, apparently, when applied to a cut or what have you.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you tried to kill me with a knife that had <em> onion </em> on it.”</p><p>“Sorry, darling, that was poor form on my part,” Aziraphale said. “I promise, next time I try to kill you, it’ll be with a clean knife.”</p><p>“Much obliged,” Crowley grunted, and then picked up a plate and hurled it at his husband’s head.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Aziraphale wasn’t sure what hurt more: the shattering of stoneware against his skull, or the fact that Crowley had chosen to start assaulting him with his favourite dinner set. </p><p>“You couldn’t have thrown one of the three pound IKEA plates?!” Aziraphale yelled, ducking behind the counter and rolling forward to the first of his storage drawers. He felt a trail of blood start to stream its way down the side of his face.</p><p>“I could have, if someone had taken them out the dishwasher last night like they said they would,” Crowley replied, still hurling Le Creuset plates like it was going out of style. Aziraphale tucked a few throwing knives into the carrying pocket he always wore in his sock garters and leapt to his feet the minute the smashing overhead stopped, only to find the kitchen devoid of any sign of Crowley. Aziraphale took one tentative step forward and winced as his shoe crunched on the shards of his recently deceased dinnerware. The entire tiled floor of the kitchen was coated in them— a stealthy exit from any of the three doors leading to the rest of the house was almost impossible. Almost. He’d have to be careful about it if he wanted to get the drop on his husband.</p><p>He slowly made his way forward through the kitchen, keeping an eager ear out for any tell-tale footsteps from the hallway. Perhaps Crowley had fled the scene, he reasoned, perhaps he’d decided that the betrayal itself was enough. Turning Aziraphale over to his superiors probably had earned him some sort of promotion, or an exorbitant amount of money or— or <em> something </em> . There must have been a reason he’d done it, after all. <em> There is a reason, </em> Aziraphale reminded himself, <em> and the reason is that you were just a cover story. It was all a ruse, and you, old fool that you are, fell for it. </em></p><p>Aziraphale paused as he noticed the strip of light shining under the kitchen door. The lights were back on. Crowley hadn’t fled the scene at all. He’d been down to the wine cellar. </p><p>“Who keeps their weapons in the <em> basement,</em> honestly. No tactical advantage whatsoever,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, pulling the kitchen knife out of the door frame as he went and wiping it on the tea towel slung over his shoulder. He pushed the kitchen door open a smidge and slid the knife through the open gap, checking for any signs of his husband. All clear, or so it would seem. Aziraphale took a deep breath and slipped into the hallway. No sooner had he taken three steps forward that he saw the flash of Crowley at the top of the stairs. Aziraphale took a moment to be proud of him for managing to get down to the cellar and back up there in such impressive time before he dropped to a crouch as three bullets lodged themselves in the kitchen door. He immediately retaliated with a knife thrown into the space on the landing where he anticipated Crowley would have dodged to. Aziraphale heard a sharp yell and smiled, pleased with his efforts as he ducked around the living room door for cover.</p><p>“Still alive, dear heart?” He called cheerily around the jamb. A few seconds later a body-sized <em> thump </em> hit the floor in the hall, and then silence. Aziraphale frowned, calculating his throw, the position of Crowley’s body— it should have only hit him in the thigh at most. He had only meant to incapacitate him, not <em>kill—</em></p><p>No, he wanted Crowley dead, he <em>did.</em> It was the correct outcome, objectively, when one considered the entire situation. It would be satisfying on both a personal and a professional level, Aziraphale told himself. He just… hadn’t wanted it over so soon, that was all this feeling was— disappointment at being cheated out of a more robust victory. Aziraphale swallowed and pushed the door open to see where Crowley’s body had fallen, but instead of his husband what lay shattered on the floor was his mid-century sewing stool, medical supplies and knitting needles spilling out across the floorboards where it had broken apart upon impact. The next thing he knew he was sprawled on his back on the floor of the living room, pain radiating out from the centre of his chest where Crowley had delivered a fairly impressive flying kick from around the corner.</p><p>“Can’t get rid of me that easy, angel,” Crowley smirked, gesturing to the blood staining his thigh as he stood over him.</p><p>Aziraphale laughed, and then chided himself. This wasn’t meant to be <em> fun. </em> This wasn’t one of their usual verbal <em>tête-à-têtes.</em> This was— this was it. This was the last fight they’d ever have, and there would be a decisive victor. Aziraphale knew it would be him, of course, but still couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. If only Crowley hadn’t <em> pushed </em> him to this, if only he’d just sat down and eaten his dinner, let them carry on as normal. </p><p>If only Crowley actually loved him.</p><p>The email he’d received explaining to him that Crowley was indeed the rogue agent at the party had almost seemed like a joke at first— especially considering the litany of codenames his husband operated under. Aziraphale was a bit put out he wouldn’t get to tease him about them, considering Crowley would be dead soon. He leapt to his feet, throwing four of his knives in quick succession. Crowley dodged them all, but from the look on his face hadn’t been anticipating Aziraphale’s speed. <em> Good, </em> Aziraphale thought, taking the opportunity to rush forward and barrel into Crowley’s chest before he got any ideas about using the gun he’d pulled out from the back of his trousers. Said gun went flying off across the room as they went down heavy, slamming into the corner of the table that housed Aziraphale’s gramophone. The needle scratched something awful then was shortly replaced by Elton and Kiki Dee imploring each other not to go breaking their hearts. Crowley landed a punch on Aziraphale’s cheek that was, in truth, quite weak. As though he’d faltered halfway through the swing. If only he’d shown such hesitation when deciding to spill all of their secrets to whichever organisation he worked for, Aziraphale may have been more lenient.</p><p>“Just out of curiosity,” Crowley said, gasping a little as Aziraphale’s hands closed around his throat, “why bother k—krhk—<em>fuck—” </em>he took a great heaving breath and then slammed his fist so hard into Aziraphale’s side he saw stars as their bodies twisted over with the force of it, Crowley now on top. “Why bother killing the agent, back at the party? Could’ve just let him do me in there and then, save yourself the trouble.”</p><p>Aziraphale struggled under his grip, not too worried about breaking free yet but more concerned with figuring out where Crowley’s gun had skidded off to in the scuffle.</p><p>“I assure you, killing you myself is no trouble at all,” Aziraphale told him, then launched himself upwards to head-butt his husband square on the nose. Crowley swore and reeled back, blood already trickling down his face. They both rose to their feet at the same time, but Aziraphale was aware he was fast running out of knives on his person, and the gun was now <em>somewhere </em>in the damn room. Crowley had wastefully fired three shots into the kitchen door already, just three left. If Aziraphale got his hands on it, he’d only need one. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley tried his best to calculate the distance between him and the gun without giving the game away to Aziraphale, who was clearly also looking for the bastard thing. Crowley had seen it skittering under the grating by the fireplace while his husband was attempting to choke the life out of him, and he knew he'd have to get his hands on it before he gave Aziraphale another opportunity to get his hands on <em>him.</em> It was obvious, the way he now realised probably should have been from the start, that if he was relying on strength alone to win this fight Aziraphale would beat him every time. Even if Crowley thought he might have posed a threat at full capacity, his leg was killing him where Aziraphale had got him with the knife. He had written off the throw that took out the agent back at the party as an incredibly lucky one at at the time, but Crowley had since been proven wrong on that front and, in all honesty, the knowledge that Aziraphale was ridiculously competent at all this was sort of doing it for him. He’d have to resort to what Aziraphale would no doubt consider <em>‘less than sporting’</em> methods if he wanted to get his gun back and get out of here alive.</p><p>“How many jobs do you think we’ve fucked up for each other over the years?” Crowley asked, wiping his bloodied nose on the back of his hand as he carefully started circling the edge of the room towards the fireplace.</p><p>“Why must you always poke the bear in these situations?” Aziraphale said, eyes following his every move. “Don’t give me any more reasons to be furious with you, Crowley, I’ve got quite enough of those at the moment.”</p><p>“Just saying. If only we’d known. Could’ve, I don’t know, coordinated or something. Made sure not to both go to the bother of turning up for a job only for the other one to get in the way. Maybe our employers would thank us, bit of innovation on the job. Who are you working for, anyway?”</p><p>“You honestly think I'm stupid enough to answer that?” Aziraphale frowned as Crowley got nearer to the gramophone.</p><p><em> Well, was worth a shot, </em>Crowley thought and then sent several of his vinyls spinning through the air—with silent apologies to Lou, Chet and Stevie—towards Aziraphale. He heard a knife whizz past him as he made a run for it and thought he might have been successful, but a firm hand closed around his wrist before he’d even cleared the rug. Crowley was yanked back against Aziraphale, slamming into his husband’s chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him from behind. Aziraphale twisted Crowley’s arm a little higher, a little flatter, up his back and then leant forward to press his knife to Crowley’s throat. Crowley swallowed against it, feeling the tip dig in a little more as he did so. At least he wouldn’t die bleeding out from the inevitable neck wound, as after that little show of force all the blood in his body had helpfully decided to relocate somewhere more southerly. </p><p><em>“Guh”</em> was not exactly the endlessly quotable last line Crowley would have written for himself, but it was apparently all he was getting. For once, Aziraphale didn’t have any kind of witty comeback lined up but instead answered with a similar grunt, tightening his hold on Crowley as he did so and making no further moves to end their fight or remove the knife. They stayed like that as the song came to an end, the needle automatically sinking back to its rest and leaving only the sounds of their heavy breathing to underscore whatever would happen next. </p><p>“Aziraphale?”</p><p>“Hm?” came the distracted reply.</p><p>“Do all your targets get this sort of treatment, or am I a special case?” Crowley asked, as low and sultry as he could get his voice to go with how abused his throat had been in the last ten minutes. He punctuated the question by rocking his hips back, grinding against Aziraphale. It had been obvious from the moment Aziraphale grabbed him that he was in the exact same situation as Crowley, and how he’d react here was a bit of a gamble, but as if on instinct Aziraphale’s hips chased the pressure of Crowley’s body where they met. The next second, Crowley found himself being thrown forward out of Aziraphale’s arms, skidding across the floor and crashing into the fire grate along with the knife Aziraphale had been holding.</p><p>“You absolute <em> beast</em>—” Aziraphale raged, reaching for another knife as he cleared the space between him and Crowley’s prone from in a few quick strides, “—how could you think to use such <em> underhanded </em> tactics on me, you—”</p><p>Crowley spun to his feet and held the gun aloft, pointed directly between Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale stopped short, the tip of the barrel almost touching his forehead.</p><p>“Ah,” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered at his sides, and Crowley watched as the realisation he’d already had came heavy over his husband’s features: Aziraphale was out of weapons. Crowley's finger twitched against the trigger, but the gun remained steady between them. “Right,” Aziraphale continued, before drawing himself up to his full height and nodding. “That’s where it got off to, then. Well played, Crowley. Apart from the cheating at the end there, really quite awful on your part, but—”</p><p>“I’d hardly call it cheating, angel—”</p><p>“It was explicit cheating and you know it, you incorrigible—”</p><p>“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, gentle but firm. Aziraphale’s babbled scolding fell silent. He smiled, a watery thing compared to his usual sunny demeanour.</p><p>“Quite right, my dear.” His eyes roamed over Crowley’s face for a moment or two—some expression Crowley couldn’t look too closely at stealing over his features as he did so—before they closed. “I concede, and I’m— I’m ready. Take your shot.”</p><p>Crowley felt the gun trembling in his grip. How many people had he killed, now? Too hard to say, really, but he could count on one hand the number of people he’d killed up close and personal like this before. There was a reason he liked working with guns. Much easier to do the deed from afar, with less mess and noise and bother to deal with. Maximum effectiveness with minimum direct involvement. He’d never been as <em> directly involved </em> with anyone as he had been with the man in front of him, in life and now in death. Crowley shook himself out a little to try and focus, and winced a bit when he put too much weight on his left leg. <em> He had so many opportunities to kill you, </em> the voice in his head chimed in, <em> and if you shoot him now you’re going to spend the rest of your life wondering why he didn’t. </em></p><p>“May I just interject for a moment?” Aziraphale said.</p><p>Crowley blinked. </p><p>“Last words, is it?”</p><p>“Not exactly,” Aziraphale sniffed, then went a bit cross-eyed as he took in the gun still trained on him. “It’s just… are you very much devoted to shooting me in the head?”</p><p>“As opposed to?” Crowley drawled.</p><p>“Well, it’s only that I’d rather not become a vegetable if we can avoid it. The statistics on these sorts of things say—”</p><p>“I know what the statistics say, Aziraphale,” Crowley cut in, gritting his teeth. “Of the two of us, who’s the one who actually uses a gun to do their job? I’m not a complete <em> idiot—"</em></p><p>“Then you’ll know the risks. So, if you would just be so kind as to shoot me somewhere else, I’d be much obliged. Perhaps the heart?”</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re doing this right now, it’s like sitting across from you when we order at that Greek place where the chef hates you because—”</p><p>Aziraphale gasped. “Dmitri does <em> not </em> hate me! Take that back!”</p><p>“—you look at the food he’s been making for his entire life and decide you know how to prepare it better than he does! That’s just what this is like, you can’t believe I could actually be good at this, can you? Christ, I could just<em> murder you </em>sometimes—”</p><p>“Yes, that’s what I’m saying, if you’re going to kill me then I’d rather you did it <em> properly—” </em></p><p>Crowley fired off the last three shots in the chamber. Aziraphale’s mouth was frozen in a perfect round ‘o’ of surprise, a perfect snapshot of a moment that was ruined only a bit by the tiny amount of plaster that fell into his hair from the brand new holes in the ceiling. Crowley lowered his arm, the gun dropping to the floor. </p><p>“I—” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, “I don’t understand.”</p><p>Crowley reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold knife he’d saved from the party. Aziraphale tensed for a moment when he saw it, which would have hurt more if Crowley hadn’t just scared the shit out of him with the gunshots, but still hurt nonetheless. Crowley wanted to do something cool, like toss it into the air and catch it as it twisted back down towards his hand. He calculated the likelihood of him ending up with the blade going straight down through the middle of his hand and decided not to bother. He was aware he might have gotten it wrong here, that he was risking everything on a hunch, but Crowley—in a very uncharacteristic move—found himself with a sudden overabundance of faith. He spun the blade once in his palm so that the handle was pointing out towards Aziraphale.</p><p>“I’m not going to kill you, angel,” Crowley shrugged. “I don’t think I could.”</p><p>“What are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, eyes bright and wet. “Crowley, you can’t possibly be— you have orders. You <em> won.” </em></p><p>“You know, for some bizarre reason, the idea of you dying at my hand doesn’t exactly feel like winning to me,” Crowley said. “Might have something to do with the fact that I love you. Probably not the only reason, but it’s the main one.”</p><p>“Don’t,” Aziraphale warned him, unable to settle between looking at Crowley’s face and the knife in his hand. “Don’t <em> lie </em> to me, Crowley. Not again.”</p><p>Crowley sighed. “I’m not lying. Not to you. Never to you.”</p><p>Aziraphale raised one perfectly sceptical eyebrow, as if to say <em> were you at all present for the last several hours? </em></p><p>“... alright, yes, walked into that one. But not about this. Not about us. Not about you,” Crowley caught Aziraphale’s hand in his own, bringing it up and pressing the knife into it. “The kill’s yours, if you want it.”</p><p>He let his grip slowly fall away, a little gratified at how Aziraphale swayed forward, as though he didn't trust himself to stay up without Crowley's touch. Aziraphale considered the weapon now in his possession, the confident hold he had on the hilt at odds with his expression that said he felt as lost as Crowley had with his finger on the trigger. </p><p>“The thing is,” Crowley went on, trying to keep his voice light and even as he moved into Aziraphale’s space, “the thing <em> is, </em>Aziraphale, is that I don’t think you want it.” He was so close now that the knife was pressing into the softest part of his belly. All Aziraphale had to do was give one firm push and it would be over. “I think, like me, you’ve been the worst sort of idiot and done the one thing people like us aren’t supposed to do.”</p><p>“Fallen in love?” Aziraphale’s voice was barely there as he looked up to meet Crowley’s gaze. The words themselves had been relief enough, but that was nothing compared to seeing that fond, coy look in Aziraphale’s eyes he’d seen almost every day of his life for the past eight years. Crowley knew he didn’t want to go without that look ever again. It didn’t matter, what Aziraphale had done. </p><p>“Well, I was going to say ‘accidentally married another hitman as part of your cover story’, but yes, falling in love works too,” Crowley grinned, resting their foreheads together. “You <em> love </em> me.”</p><p>“I do,” Aziraphale said, and surged forward to kiss him. Crowley felt a familiar swooping sensation in his stomach, quickly followed by an unfamiliar stabbing sensation. </p><p>“Er, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, against his husband’s lips. “Quick question, sure it’s nothing to worry about, but— are you still holding onto the knife?</p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck,” </em> Aziraphale said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter has been known as 'the fuck chapter' in my drafts this whole time and then when i came to write it there were just a lot of moving pieces and none of them were a fuck. i would say i'm sorry but the overwhelming truth of the matter is that i'm not!!!</p><p>there might be a delay in getting the next chapter up. AS YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED the chapter count has changed because, again. the fuck was meant to happen, <a href="https://i.imgur.com/EhAJZQo.jpg">it didn't</a>, and now these two idiots are talking a lot more than i expected them to so i'm just having to do a LITTLE BIT OF RESTRUCTURING. still hoping for next weekend but may be a day or two late. thank you all for sticking around and reading and EXTRA THANKS for being so lovely about jeebs' amazing art last chapter. excited out of my mind to say THERE IS MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM</p><p>xxx</p>
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